Tick Tock, Tick Todd
by Bru21
Summary: Tick. You're not getting out of this. Not alive. Tick. The dead should stay dead. Tick. No one is going to 'right the wrongs' except you. You're going to do what needs to be done. Tick. The dead should stay dead. WARNING: Suicide themes and possibly triggering.
1. 0:01

I've been obsessed with Jason Todd (Who isn't?!) Lately and after enough fluffy stories, I wanted to write something dark?! I hope this is alright, every character is probably incredibly OOC and I'm sorry for that!

I went mostly off the movie, with a few tie-in nods to the comics (Pre-52); also, in this fic interpretation, I imagined Bruce's parents' graves not at the same cemetery as Jason's-I imagine they're on the Wayne property, but that's just my interpretation for this story.

Warning: This fic could be seen as triggering. It does delve into some self-destructive and suicidal thoughts and actions. I'm not sure if some will see it as offensive or dark or if others will think my warning here is 'over-hyping' and when you read the fic, it's rather underwhelming. But, I wrote from a depressive and suicidal experience and I'm sorry if anyone finds offense or disgust by this because of that.

There's also cursing. And, again, I'm sorry if I completely mangled these characters! And the A/N at the end is really long! Sorry~!

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters~!

* * *

0:09

Tick.

You think you're in a hopeless situation, and then suddenly you know you are. Suddenly, it's no longer "I can't get myself out of this" with the hope that "but maybe someone _else_ can". Now, it's purely, "I'm _not_ getting out of this."

It's the fastest existential crisis in human history, and it occurs to the teenage boy who has the rare privilege of knowing exactly how he's going to die and when.

0:08

Tick.

His death will occur in eight seconds. In eight seconds, the world will right its wrong. Because, he really should have been dead years ago. He was a runt on the streets that stole for survival, and sure, it got him to the age of thirteen, but it wasn't going to get him this far. No, dumb luck and a coincidence-fate- screwed him over and he made the most incredible first impression to the man that would have this boy cheat death for a few more years when, _really_ , he should've died a long time ago, either by pure malnutrition or the natural violence that fell on Crime Alley like snow each winter.

0:07

Tick.

How had he not heard or seen the explosives before? Did toggling the door set them off? The ticking is the loudest thing, suddenly, and even his mind is clearing, leaving nothing but the echoing residue of each tick that passes; of each second of his life counting down to his demise. He doesn't think about all the things he didn't get to do-some people like to spend their final moments crying over their regrets. " _I wish I'd have visited this place_ " or " _If only I'd told her how much I loved her_ ".

Those people normally weren't the same ones to put themselves in the situation that was causing their death.

No, he had put the gun to his temple the moment he'd disobeyed orders and he'd pulled the trigger once he'd ran off on his own. He'd contributed as much to his own death-constructed it-as the Joker had.

0:06

Tick.

For being a kid 'full of hatred', as many liked to describe him, he didn't feel any hate right now. He knew Bat...Bruce. He knew Bruce wasn't going to save his hide this time. That had been established three seconds ago. He knew the clown had won this time-again. The Joker...he'd caused enough pain, enough demise and damage.

He should really be hating the Joker right now, but he's calm. Because he knows, he _feels_ , that this isn't just his end. This... _this_ , surely, will convince Bruce to do the right thing. Put down the Joker. He and the Joker signed a death warrant tonight, and while he may be meeting with the reaper a bit earlier, he was certain the Joker was soon to follow.

Bruce would make _sure_ of it.

0:05

Tick.

Another tick, another second. He tries to imagine what the burn, the explosion, will feel like, for the brief moments where he is still alive enough to feel and sense, but stops himself. Why imagine? Why set standards? He'll find out in five seconds anyway…

He wishes he had some profound thought to end his miserably short life on. If he had a will, it'd be just as blank. What did he have to leave behind? The legacy of being the second, and lesser, Robin? (Children shouldn't be fighting this war, he realizes. Children shouldn't be made into soldiers. Sure, he and Dick maybe were exceptions, but he reasoned with himself after this, Bruce wouldn't make the mistake of thinking everyone- every lost and lonely kid who needed a purpose or justice- could be taken under his wing, suited up, and thrown out into the fray).

This was, again, normally where people thought of their regrets-things they wished they'd said. But, he was drawing a blank. He had nothing to say to Dick-they weren't on terrible terms, but he was just Dick's replacement-his shadow. Whatever he said, it didn't matter. He'd just let Dick think up what he'd imagine the younger boy would've said to him if he'd had a chance for final words; that would help him sleep at night, or not. If he was smart, he'd let the knowledge of knowing that his killer was dead (Bruce was going to avenge him. Bruce was going to finally kill the joker; if his death meant anything to Bruce, Bruce would finally do what had been needed to be done) be satisfaction enough and he'd move on just fine.

 _Maybe_ he regretted not having seen Alfred one last time. He could really go for a glass of Alfred's lemonade right now.

0:04

Tick.

He thinks of every adventure, every fight, he's been in; been a part of. For a kid who should've died on the same harsh streets as his father, in the same twisted way as his mother, he'd done well for himself. He'd lasted this long. So, this...this death...it seemed right.

Now, all he had to do was worry about Bruce _actually_ making it here-he didn't want his avenger to be caught up in the blast with him.

Luckily, he only had four more seconds to worry about that.

0:03

Tick.

Make that three.

And Bruce...Bruce had done so much for him...Maybe he wishes he could have said some last words to Bruce. Something like " _Thank you_ " or " _You were right_ " or even " _I forgive you_ ", because the teen _knew_ Bruce would think this was his fault. It wasn't.

He relaxes his eyes, closing the left one completely because who is he kidding, it was already swollen and blind in the first place, and because he's tired. He's been beaten and he's fought this long, this far, but there's no winning. There's only waiting. And he stops thinking about the "What ifs" because there's no point. Those things he'd say to Bruce? He won't get to.

0:02

Tick.

These are his last moments of life. Pain in every muscle and bone in his body, bleeding profusely-hell, he's welcoming death at this point. Alone, in his torture chamber of a warehouse. The only noise or sound of comfort being the countdown clicking of the timer. His eyes are focused on the explosives, the wiring. He's literally staring death in the eye-and it has three, red eyes that blink every second.

Shouldn't he have started praying by now?

0:01

Tick.

He spits some blood that's gathered in his mouth. It leaves behind the taste of copper. _Get him, Bruce. Silence that damn clown's laughter for good_ , are Jason Todd's last, comforting thoughts.

0:00

Tick.

* * *

When you're dead, time stands still. Rather, time stops existing. Time is a concept and to the dead, it's a meaningless one.

All that matters to the dead?

If _anything_ mattered to the dead, it was that they _stayed_ dead.

That they stayed in the casket they were supposedly buried in, at the foot of a gravestone that reads their own name.

The dead belong _dead_.

They don't belong standing in front of their grave, reading the engraved name that they share.

 _He_ doesn't belong here.

 _Here Lies Jason Todd_

Four words; a lie. A lie that should have been a truth. Jason should be lying here, in peace. He should be exactly where this marbled tombstone proclaims he is. He shouldn't be standing above his own grave-he should be _in_ it.

 _Here Lies Jason Todd_

He should be dead, but so should that clown. He was given this second chance at life to right the wrong.

Right?

That's what he'd thought. _He should be dead, and so should the Joker_. One of them, at the very least, needs to be.

He clenches his fists, still staring at those four words.

 _Here Lies Jason Todd_

The Joker should be dead. He wishes the Joker was dead...

But the truth is he's the one who should be dead.

The tombstone is proof of that. It's a lie, but it shouldn't be.

He should be dead.

He's wiped out of all databases; deceased aren't on record, don't have finger prints or priors. He has no family-blood or adopted or anything. He doesn't even have a purpose anymore.

His big plan? The vengeance? His elaborate game of chess where he, _he_ , had moved the pieces and arranged them all into place.

And he lost it. The scar on his hand was proof of that.

He had nothing.

And only the _dead_ have _nothing_.

And he should be dead.

The earth underneath him is fresh, dug up and piled again. He wonders if there's a casket underneath him still, or did Bruce remove it when he realized this was an empty grave?

But why keep the tombstone up? Why waste an empty spot?

Because it wasn't empty. Or, rather, it shouldn't be. It was waiting.

Waiting for someone to fill it.

And it just so happened that the tombstone had picked the person.

Jason _did_ have one thing left, it turns out.

Jason pockets his hands, even though his left is throbbing still and he can feel the stitches coming out, and turns his back on the only thing he does have- _his grave_. He's beyond being 'on borrowed time'.

He already had an expiration date, was thrown out, and yet he's back.

It's always raining in Gotham-it's a light drizzle right now, but he doesn't bother putting up his hood.

It's not like anyone will recognize him-the only one who could isn't looking for him. And to everyone else?

He doesn't exist. He's dead.

Once he passes the cemetery's gates, the grass changes to concrete. Puddles form on the sidewalk and the rain taps onto them.

Tap. tap. tap.

Tip. tip. tip.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It's always there, ringing in the back of his mind. The ticking; the countdown. He thought it was a side effect, from the damage of dying and being resurrected. The last thing he'd heard when he was, _properly_ , alive would be revived with him.

The ticking from his memory that served as a countdown to his death.

But, now he understood why the ticking stayed with him from the moment he was reanimated.

It's the countdown to his death.

And it's running out of time. He is running out of time-time that, again, is _beyond_ borrowed by now.

Tick.

The rain drips on his face, his shoulders. It's light, but walking long enough in it, you'll still get drenched. He doesn't know where he's going. He has nowhere. _Nothing_.

Nothing but a grave to his name (literally).

Tick. Tick.

The rain is getting heavier. Or the ticking is getting louder? He grits his teeth. He can't stand this. Everything is ruined. Everything is gone.

Tick.

He shouldn't even be here! He should be _dead_!

Tick.

He needs to be dead. He _wants_ to be dead.

Tick...

He stops, his feet coming together on the sidewalk. Everyone had ran for cover into buildings, cafes or under canopies; awnings.

He alone stands outside of this grey afternoon.

If Bruce won't set things right with the joker...if he won't set things right with Jason...

Then at least Jason will set a wrong right.

He'll turn a lie into the truth.

The dead should be dead.

* * *

Dick is staring at the case when Bruce enters the cave.

"Alfred told me you had stopped by."

Somewhere laced in that statement is a question.

"I was in the neighborhood."

Bruce 'tsk's because when is Dick just _'in the neighborhood'_?

"Hope you don't mind, I let myself in," Dick motions to the cave, but his eyes are still fixated on the case.

Bruce doesn't say anything. He doesn't acknowledge the case, or Dick's interest in it. It's been a month.

The nightmarish dream is over. The miracle has faded. Jason had been returned to him, revived, only to be taken back.

He tried telling himself, in those first few nights when the weight of Jason's death was on his shoulders, Jason's blood on his hands, (again) by reasoning with himself that it wasn't Jason who returned to him. Jason had died. The Lazarus pit...it had done something to him. Corrupted him. Jason was reckless, but the pit made him _mad_. The pit changed him.

He didn't come back as Jason Todd.

This, and the occasional tranquilizer when this mantra failed him three nights in a row and Alfred insisted eighty-odd hours of no sleep was dangerous, helped Bruce sleep (It did no such thing).

Bruce was at the computer, in his chair, when Dick finally spoke up again. Batman knew he was going to, and even what Dick was going to say-he'd just been waiting on Dick to finally-

"Do you think Jason is still out there?"

With every fiber in Bruce's being, he wanted to say no. Because, he told himself, that animated corpse was _not_ Jason.

He wanted to say no because the odds of Jason escaping that explosion...Bruce had searched; he'd searched under every rock, every debris; he'd searched a four block perimeter. There was no trace of Jason (But there was no body, no evidence to suggest he had perished).

No sightings of the Red Hood. Crime had returned to the shadow of Black Mask. Bruce had facial recognition satellites running constantly to try to identify a match of Jason.

Everything pointed to Jason was gone.

Still, it felt like a lie when he spoke.

"No."

Dick cocked a brow.

He knew better. He wasn't _as_ good as Bruce, but he _had_ been trained by him. He could tell when the man was lying-most of the time at least- and Bruce wasn't even trying to cover the fact he didn't believe in his own words.

"What do you say we go out tonight for old time's sake?"

Bruce fired up the computer, running the data collected on current dispatches and statistically high targeted areas where crime would most likely be.

"I won't stop you if you intend to follow me-"

"-I don't mean as Batman and Nightwing," Dick cut him off.

To this, Bruce finally looked away from the screen and at Dick.

Dick was in civilian clothes. He wasn't dressed as Nightwing. The sun had just set (Though this was Gotham, so it'd been dark for hours by now).

Bruce could practically hear Alfred tensing at the top of the stairs, holding his breath in wishful anticipation.

Bruce sighed.

"Do you have somewhere in mind?"

"And that's a yes!" Dick celebrated, and Bruce heard Alfred sigh out loud, " _It's about time_."

* * *

Jason had walked from the outskirts of Gotham to Crime Alley. It'd taken him all afternoon, but he wasn't in any hurry.

The dead don't care about time, remember?

In five years, this place hadn't changed. Hell, in all of his life (before he'd died-that was his life. _This_? This was a dream, and the dead shouldn't be dreaming) it hadn't changed.

His old apartment complex still stood, in shambles, and still littered with the homeless. A prostitute winked and blew a kiss at him. Three thugs looked him up and down, sizing up whether he was worth mugging.

Apparently not. They turned their backs to him.

Months ago, he had practically owned these streets. He'd ran them with a gloved fist. He'd struck terror in probably those very thugs who saw him as a nobody now; nothing.

Which, by all accounts, he was.

He'd been stumbling on for over a month now. It wasn't living, he reminded himself. Days didn't feel like days to him. In all the time that had passed, it might as well have been years, or even just seconds.

How he'd gotten out of that explosion alive, he deeply regretted. _God damn it_ , he was supposed to be _dead_! So why was the universe messing with that?!

He'd wandered, broken and hurt at first. He had safe houses: cash, guns and equipment. Hell, he still had all that, scattered throughout Gotham. He could've just dawned the mask again, popped up in an alley and the crime world would be his again. He'd razed it to the ground before, he could've done it again.

But that, _all that_ , had been to lead up to his end game; to that confrontation. Between Bruce, him and the Joker.

All his planning lead up to that night and stopped there. Either Bruce did it-he finally took out the clown like he should have years ago, or he took out Jason.

Or, Jason took out Bruce.

Except Batman was Batman and so of _course_ he found a way where none of them died. They all escaped, unscathed for the most part.

Jason hid after that. He fled Gotham and healed himself, recovered in solitude. He knew how to cover his tracks and he knew how to disappear. The only person in the world looking for him may be just one person, but he was good at finding people.

Jason apparently was better at hiding, though.

Hiding, running; _escaping_ Bruce. That'd been the reason Jason had died. Because Batman had lost him-couldn't catch up to him, couldn't _find_ him in time.

But, Gotham- _beautiful_ , beautiful siren that she was-sang out to Jason and he couldn't abandon her. He'd returned, but to what ends? With what purpose? To sit at his own grave for a week?

Funny, that Batman would memorialize his memory in the Batcave with his _Robin_ suit, but never visited Jason Todd's grave. Batman didn't mourn losing Jason.

He mourned losing a _Robin_.

He kept the uniform as some trinket to remind himself that he'd lost to the Joker, but it'd only been a soldier-a pawn-to him.

Jason slipped through the never-locked doors. He'd always bunked on the second floor, in the corner room. By some miracle, it was empty tonight.

It hadn't changed much, but Jason knew others had been here since he'd last lived in this dump, when he'd been thirteen.

It had a filthy mattress and a corner with littered trash kicked into a pile. The walls were more worn and damaged than when Jason had been here-nearly a decade had passed.

Jason sat on the mattress, letting his head fall into his hands.

He knew what he had to do, but even if this 'second chance' at life had been nothing but a curse, it gave him one single blessing-

He was in control of how he died, and when, this time. He set the timer, and he got the chance to right his regrets, to say his goodbyes.

Except, as with before, he had no one to say goodbye to. He was already dead again to the few who had known he'd been alive the second time.

He had one regret-that he'd ever believed in Bruce. Believed that the man he'd once thought of as a father would avenge him. And when the opportunity was thrown in his face? He'd let him down.

Jason regretted ever jacking those damn tires.

He could've gone out that night and stolen from any other car, or even a corner store. He could've broken into the local high school through the basement and snuck into the library like he used to on some nights. He was probably the only kid in the world who would break in to school, just so he could read a few books.

The books he never took. Books wouldn't make any money, and if the school caught on that someone was stealing books, they'd raise the security in the library (Or not. Schools in this part of Gotham didn't care much for educating the youths. If so, Jason wouldn't have dropped out so easily from school back then). But, he'd loved to read, and so by moonlight he'd read the shorter, easier books.

Those were the best nights, even if Jason never made a profit or was fed on those nights.

Why hadn't he just done _anything_ else but tire jack the _Batmobile_?

Because then Bruce never would have entered his life.

Because then Jason would _never_ have been Robin, _never_ been beaten by the Joker and blown up in a warehouse. He'd never be revived.

Sure, he may have become a criminal (Whoops-he'd already done that anyway) and died on the streets, possibly (most likely) earlier than he had being Robin, but no one would revive a miserable street punk kid that meant nothing to no one.

If Jason could go back in time, he'd change what he did that night. Anything else but encounter Bruce.

Jason didn't realize his eyes were watering. Was he sad? Angry? He'd felt so empty these past weeks. Hell, he'd slept in dirt through rain and cold. Was his vengeful anger rising once again?

No...no, he didn't want to confront Bruce.

To Bruce, he was dead.

To _Jason_ , Jason was dead.

No use stirring the pot.

Things needed to stay as they were-or were _supposed_ to be-with Jason in his grave.

Jason opens his mouth and inhales. His throat feels dry and he hasn't eaten…well, who's counting the days really? He came here for a reason—to set things right. This is how it starts.

This was how it started.

In this very room, he decided to head out that night and he came across the perfect target.

A car in an alley and a tire jack in hand.

Tonight, he was going to head out from the same room.

A different tool in hand.

Jason looked up at the sky-clouded, as usual. No moon. No stars. Just smog and smoke and grime.

Jason couldn't wait to be buried (finally) under this hell of a city's sky.

The time was approaching. Jason's time was approaching.

* * *

Bruce fidgeted with his tie, smiling as the hostess recognized him immediately and seated him at his 'regular' table. She commented that it'd been awhile since he'd had dinner at this restaurant. Bruce didn't recall her face or name, but knew the staff was well informed of him. She'd probably been briefed upon being hired about how Bruce Wayne had dined here a few times, and when the last time had been.

Bruce knew the manager-he was the sort to brag about those kinds of things.

Sure enough, the manager was at their table, greeting Bruce warmly and shooing the hostess away, snapping his fingers for a waiter and demanding the chef's "make Mr. Wayne's special". He made a show of it, proclaiming it louder than necessary so every customer dining knew that Bruce Wayne dined here often enough to have a special.

The manager blinked at Dick a few times before, as politely and discreetly as he could, turning to Bruce to ask, "Who is this handsome young gentleman you have with you tonight, Mr. Wayne?"

"You don't recognize Dick? I know it's...been awhile, since my ward and I dined here together-" not since back when Dick had still been Robin. Before Dick had gone solo, and before Bruce had found Jason.

Dick smiled charmingly, but somehow it came across to the waiter as sarcastic.

"Ah...it has been awhile...Um, what would Mr...er, Wayne?" The manager struggled to remember Dick's surname. Technically, on paper, it was Grayson-Wayne, but Dick spared the man, "Dick is fine."

"Ah, what would you like, then...Dick?"

Dick scanned the menu.

"Actually, I'm going to need some time to decide. I'll let the waiter know when he makes his round again."

* * *

Jason didn't stay long in the apartment.

He threw up the hood of his jacket (something he'd snagged a month ago from a thrift store during 'off' hours) and headed out the door. Walking had been fine and sentimental, but now blood was rushing in him. The clock started now. It had to be tonight. No more waiting.

Tick.

Maybe he should've been grateful the Joker had left him with such little time in the warehouse.

Tick.

Jason was impatient.

Tick.

He shoved past the prostitute who yelled after him an obscenity. The thugs were gone-probably breaking in somewhere or collecting a debt. Jason didn't care.

Those were problems for the living.

He was a dead man running. And this place, amongst the living? Wasn't his scene.

He was gonna fix that though.

Tick.

He'd tried to fix things here before, but that hadn't worked out. It'd taken him awhile to realize it wasn't his place to right all the wrongs of this city, of _Batman_ , of the scum of the earth. Not anymore.

Tick.

 _His_ place was already marked with his name.

Tick.

* * *

Dinner had been long and chatty-both on account of the manager clinging to the duo the entire night. Bruce and Dick didn't talk much, but at least the food had been good. Good as it always was.

Bruce checked out his coat and met Dick outside.

"We ate out. Happy?"

Dick sighed.

"Ever walk these streets at night as Bruce Wayne?"

Bruce glared. Had Dick come all this way, dragged him out here, keeping him from being on patrol, to...have a therapy session?

"You clearly have something on your mind you want to say, so instead of beating around the bush-"

Dick sighed dramatically.

"Something on my mind? My younger brother was revived from the dead, became a crime boss and a killer, then d-died again," Dick stumbled on the word 'died', "and you return to things like normal."

"Things _are_ normal," Bruce glared.

Dick snickered.

"Careful-any criminal nearby will recognize that bat glare you're pulling right now."

Bruce continued to scowl.

Dick's smile faded.

"Bruce...things aren't the same-"

"Jason is dead. Again. _Still_. Nothing has changed. New villains and threats pop up on these streets and I handle them. Then, when that threat is gone, I move onto the next one. I'm cleaning the streets of Gotham. That hasn't changed. The procedure, the formula-it's always the same. This is...was, no different."

Bruce really was regretting coming out tonight. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose before pulling out his cell to call Alfred to come get them.

Before he'd even made it to the contacts list, Dick had snatched the phone away.

"We'll walk."

Bruce frowned.

"The manor is twenty miles from here."

"Half of the way. Or, a portion. Just a bit of a walk. The night is young; we've got _all_ the time in the world to make our way back to the manor."

* * *

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Jason's heart beat fast, loud; he actually felt alive. He felt alive at the thought of dying-oh, the irony.

Someone had parked a motorcycle outside a bar just a block from the complex Jason had come from.

Jason considered this his 'last meal' request; riding a bike one final time.

He hot-wired it easily and was zipping out of Crime Alley while the unsuspecting victim of the robbery drunkenly cheered on a pool game, subconsciously thinking how that engine outside sounded similar- _very_ similar-to his own bike.

Jason didn't give a damn about speed signs or street lights.

The thing about being suicidal (Does it count as such, if you're actually dead? Just... _happen_ to be alive, but you're trying to _return_ to being dead?) is you tend to not give a _damn_ about safety.

Tick

He'd walked all that way...

Tick

Just to return.

Tick

Someone honked at him, but he didn't care. Downtown Gotham wasn't as crowded as usual for this hour of the night. The weather must have kept most people inside, even if the rain had stopped.

Jason didn't care, though, who was or wasn't out. Those were living people.

He wasn't.

* * *

Dick started to cross the street before Bruce yanked him back by the collar. Some madman on a motorbike zipped by, no hesitation or let up on the gas whatsoever.

" _Hey_!" Dick yelled. Bruce almost broke into a run, but recalled that tonight, begrudgingly, he was just Bruce Wayne. Besides...a drunk speeding down Gotham's streets?

Someone on the police force would pick him up in another block or two.

"Where are we going Dick. Am I _allowed_ to call Alfred now?"

"I'm still feeling a bit antsy. Y'know, the leg healing and everything? Gotta stretch it out. Why? Is the old man tired already?"

"Of this night? Yes."

Dick smiled, but there was something behind it. Dick wasn't a good liar. Bruce knew Dick was leading them somewhere specific.

He also knew he wasn't going to like it one bit.

* * *

Jason threw the bike down without propping its break just at the gates of the cemetery. Reliable Gotham police-Jason had sped through nearly the entirety of Gotham without encountering one. Did they just take tonight off? Were they _that_ dependent on Batman?

Jason wondered where Batman was tonight. Probably patrolling the docks. Or stopping a heist. He certainly hadn't been in Crime Alley (he rarely ever was). Or maybe Jason was thinking too highly of himself-Batman wouldn't bother with a speedster. Not one that showed no signs of being a getaway driver. Jason had nothing to his person-except the clothes on his back and his two guns, concealed in the back of his belt and under his hoodie.

Jason didn't waste time strolling through his 'neighborhood'. He felt like he was coming home.

It was the same rush when his mother would wake up the next morning after he'd sit up with her all night, wondering if this was the last night (until it was). The rush he'd felt when he'd first become Robin (even if those days never should have happened). The rush he'd felt when for a second, he'd thought he'd cornered Batman-caught him in a 'check mate' of either killing the Joker or Jason.

He hadn't felt this way the first time he'd die. Maybe this was why he'd been resurrected.

So he could fix his final moments.

Put them on his terms.

The ticking stopped and Jason stood in the same spot he'd stood at this morning.

The earth was loose, still, and muddier even yet. It was a matter of scooping the dirt aside. A shovel would've been nice, but Jason had enough adrenaline (too much for a dead person) and he was burning through it as he clawed at the grave.

Never had there been someone so desperate to dig their own grave, literally, than Jason Todd at this moment.

* * *

"You really...didn't." Bruce asked, disbelieving. Was Dick this desperate to rile Bruce up? To get some heartfelt confession out of him?

To drag him to the _cemetery_?!

Bruce, slowly and calmly, asked once again, "Richard Grayson...you did _not_ just have us come out tonight, pick a restaurant within walking distance of this… _particular_ place, and then walk us to aforementioned place?"

Dick didn't look back at Bruce. He tried to sound upbeat in his voice, but he honestly was scared of Bruce's wrath at this moment.

"This place is a cemetery. You'd know that if you ever visited it."

Bruce glowered.

"Dick. You've crossed a _very_ thin line tonight-"

"-what the?!"

Bruce stopped mid-sentence to see what had caught Dick's attention (Because all hell would break loose if the boy thought he was getting out of this escapade without a lecture) to find a bike practically crashed at the gates of the cemetery.

"That..."

"Looks like the bike from before? I've no doubt it is."

"Someone really needed to be comforted by a lost loved one?"

"Or a grave robber."

"You always assume they're a criminal."

"He was speeding, whoever he was. Technically, he is a criminal."

"Well, we'll have to go inside and check things out."

"Or not."

Dick flinched.

"Wh-what?! But, Bruce-"

"We're not Batman and Nightwing tonight, _remember_?" Bruce threw Dick's words back at him. "I'm Bruce Wayne. You're my former ward visiting from out of town. We've no business chasing down a criminal, or entering this particular cemetery."

"The _hell_ we don't!"

Bruce was actually surprised by Dick snapping at him.

"Criminal in the grave yard or not aside, why won't you just _visit_ his grave? Make your peace with him, for pity's s-"

"-Because he isn't there!" Bruce yelled. "That is an _empty_ grave, with an _empty_ casket. I don't visit it because it's not like...he isn't..."

Bruce hesitated. Was Dick finally happy? Was this what he wanted? For Bruce to throw the facts, the _truth_ , at him?

Dick looked genuinely hurt.

 _Guess not._

"His body might not be there, but...Bruce, it's still...it still means something. It's where he _should_ be."

* * *

Finally. Where he _should_ be.

Jason looked down at his craftsmanship. The dirt had been dug up, and before him, surprisingly, was his casket.

Bruce had actually had a decently crafted casket made for him, even if he never got to be in it.

Until now.

Jason felt with his dirt-covered hands, nails filled with grime and mud, at the soft white lining of the casket.

He didn't think about what would happen in the morning, when someone came across a fresh corpse in an old grave, dug up and laying in a half open casket.

That was a problem for the living.

And Jason wasn't one of them.

At least, not in ten seconds.

0:09

Tick.

And so it began. The ticking in his head returns. He is at peace, knowing the end is coming. No backing out-nothing to stop him. He lifts up his hoodie, gripping his hands on his faithful pistols. Two is overkill, but it feels right to die with them in hand. He knows how he's going to die (again), and it's by his own hand. On his own time.

0:08

Tick.

His own time is now eight seconds. In eight seconds, he will right the world's wrong. Because he should have _stayed_ dead. He should be dead right now. _Soon_ , he reminds himself.

0:07

Tick.

The gun in his right hand is raised to his temple. He's standing on top of his casket, ready to fall into it like a bed, and his left hand grips his other pistol. This feels right, he thinks. Not offing himself-but, again he reasons, he's technically not supposed to be alive anyway. The second time around doesn't count, does it?

Either way, the pistol was to his temple and he'd pull the trigger. He'd constructed his death, this time _without_ the Joker's help.

0:06

Tick.

This is his end. Again. He knows the Joker will escape, will destroy and murder and continue to do so for as long as Batman lets him-which he will. His death won't mean a thing-a second time-and others will follow him. Others who don't deserve death. All because Bruce will never cross that line.

But, he's calm. _So what_? His death meant nothing the first time, it'll mean nothing this time. Bruce will never know anyway-he's been dead to Bruce since five years ago. He's not angry. He's accepted it. He means nothing, he knows now. He never meant anything more to Bruce than a soldier, a replacement to the Great Dick Grayson, first Robin Boy Wonder.

0:05

Tick.

Another tick in his mind, another second closer. He could pull the trigger at any moment, but the countdown just...feels right.

He knows what a gunshot wound feels like. And a concussion. And an explosion. Hell, he knows every pain there is to feel. He has a pretty good idea of what he'll feel.

Nothing.

It'll be quick.

Jason returns his thoughts to Dick. How had he managed all these years when Jason had been 'dead'? He probably did the same thing their mentor did- _forgotten about it_.

Jason doesn't remember what Alfred's lemonade tastes like. He can't remember food at all.

0:04

Tick.

His mind is blank now. This was right. Dying. _Again_. He was supposed to be dead anyway. Jason clicked off the safety.

0:03

Tick.

He had no final words. No profound thought-as usual. He'd been let down by those he thought he'd been closest to. Life had continuously screwed him over. He was ready this time for it to end.

0:02

Tick.

These are his last moments of life. His body is covered in dirt, mud and his fingers are bleeding slightly. He's standing in his own grave, with his name looking down at him. He only hears the ticking in his head. He welcomes death. He closes his eyes.

0:01

Tick.

He smiles.

"JASON!?"

* * *

"It is where he _should_ be, but he's not. He's...he's nowhere," Bruce confesses. He _knows_. He's searched. Constantly, always-he searched for Jason, and never could he find him.

Dick's fists close and Bruce wonders if his former protégé will try to fight him.

But, Dick relaxes his fingers and turns his head away.

"I can't get through to you...And if it meant anything to you, I'd say...I'd tell you I'm disappointed. This...isn't the man who raised me. Who honored the dead and respected all lives. You taught me to think logically and be calculating, but you didn't build a robot. With no feelings. And I never thought you were one...until now. Until I see you, first hand, refusing to _acknowledge_ Jason...we were both your sons."

Bruce flinches. "Were?"

"You're not my dad. Of any variety." Dick spits. "Call Alfred if you want. Hell, walk all the way back to the manor. Or go off and be Batman and run away from being Bruce Wayne for as long as you can because Batman doesn't mourn his sons-Batman has no sons. Maybe Jason was right...we are just soldiers to you."

Dick makes his way to the gate, but Bruce stops him by the wrist.

"Dick..."

"I'll find my own way back. I might be here awhile. I...I have a lot I want to talk to Jason about. Things I never got to say...never said. You're right...he isn't there. His _body_ isn't in that grave, but...but it means something more to at least be speaking to his grave, where I've thought for the past five years he was, than to confront a costume in a glass case like his memory is an artifact in a museum."

Dick shoved off Bruce's hand and turned the corner, disappearing into the grave yard.

Bruce sighed, his own fists shaking.

He did love Dick as a son. He loved-loves-Jason as a son as well. He never could bring himself to the grave because...because the grave is proof that Jason Todd is-or was, for a time, and is again now- _dead_. The Robin costume is a reminder-he never forgets Jason, but he...

Against all logic, he can't _accept_ Jason is gone. He died too young; it was unfair. Unjust. Bruce should've been able to save him. To do _something_ about it.

He should've been there more for Jason.

He could've prevented his death.

"Jason..." Bruce mutters, a whimper out loud.

The name echoes back to him in a shriek that is undeniably Dick's.

"JASON?!"

* * *

The timer is frozen. Jason. That's his name. A voice spoke his name. But, it wasn't in his head.

It sounded...

Jason whips around, both guns trained on Dick.

"Dickiebird! I'll admit, this isn't how I pictured this in my head."

Jason is smiling, quipping, but he's shaking. _This isn't how it's supposed to happen. Dick, get out of here! Why the hell are you here anyway?!_

"Jason...y-you're alive?"

"That line's been used before," Jason grits his teeth. He's stalling, but for what? Maybe Dick will faint from shock and he can get on with this.

 _Just go away, Dick. This doesn't concern you._

"Dick!"

Jason feels his spine grow cold and he trains his second gun on the approaching figure. He knows that voice.

But why is _he_ here?

Bruce stops when he notices Jason, and the gun targeted at his chest.

Jason notes they're not costumed up tonight. Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson stand before him. Not Nightwing.

Not Batman.

It doesn't matter, he reminds himself. This just means there's no gadgets-no _battarangs_ -to get in his way. Still, he can't stall any longer. This is Batman after all, with or without his suit.

"Let me do this!"

"What are you...Jason, you _survived_? Wh-why...why are you standing..."

"In my own grave? Gee, pops, take a guess. This is my property-name's on it and everything. And you two are trespassing. Please, _kindly_ get the _hell_ off my lawn."

"Jason, put the guns down! We can help-"

"The only help you can offer me is to pull to trigger yourself or leave. It ends tonight. No? Fine, I'll do it myself, as I intended." Jason whips his head from Dick to Bruce. "Aren't you happy? One less criminal on the streets. And I'm not even giving you an ultimatum. No one else dies tonight. No one, in fact, is dying tonight..." He trails off, his voice dropping. It's shaky.

"What are you talking about Jason? Jason, you need help. Come with us-"

"I told you!" Jason raises the guns higher, his grip tightening. "The only way you can help me...well, we both know you won't do it. Remember?"

"You said no one's dying tonight. So why-?"

"I'm already dead, Dickiebird. _Remember_? It was five years ago, halfway across the globe. I died _alone_ and _beaten_ and in case you need to be refreshed, my _killer_ calls himself the 'Joker' and is currently sitting comfortably in Arkham Asylum. _This_? This is just a corpse transfer, is all. I didn't quite like where they buried me before, so I've moved here. It was already set up, waiting for me and everything!"

"Jason, the pit...it...it messed with your head. You've been dead and now you're alive again. You are _alive_. Come with us..."

Jason shook his head. "Not happening, Dick." His eyes flash angrily at Batman. Batman could never recall the shade of green Jason's eyes had been after he died. He'd always worn his mask since his revival and...and now...

They were so empty. He looked tired. Exhausted.

He looked dead.

"What? Nothing to say Brucey? You waiting for the curtain to fall? Call off your guard dog and we can all three leave in peace. My departure will be more of an ethereal one, but..."

Bruce couldn't speak. Jason was alive, _again_ , and about to die, _again_ , and...and Batman could save him, _right_?

No. Batman had failed twice now, and he didn't believe in 'third time's the charm'.

Batman couldn't...

But Bruce could.

Without hesitation Bruce jumped down into the pit with Jason. Jason froze, and despite having both guns aimed at Bruce's chest, he didn't pull either trigger.

He couldn't.

"You won't kill me. And you're not...you're not going to die tonight. You're coming home with me."

Jason spat, feeling rage fill him again, "And _why the hell_ would I do _that_?!"

"Because you're my son. And you need my help. And...and I need you."

Jason knows his eyes are watering but his vision is still clear. At least, clear enough to see the conviction in Bruce's eyes.

"I...I don't deserve to be alive...I'm supposed to be-"

"-With _us_. At the manor. _Home_. Jason, you never should have died. I...I never should have let that happen. Fate gave you a second chance. You have a second go at life-this time, you choose what to do with it. But, don't throw it away."

Jason lowers his pistols, if only slightly. They're still off safety and locked on Bruce. Dick just stands, frozen, at the top of the grave.

Jason's mind is racing with thoughts. Weighing the pros, the cons.

Through all the noise in his head, he doesn't hear the ticking. He can't make out the timer in his mind at all.

And suddenly, his arms are pushed down, guns dropping, and he's being enveloped.

A hug?

Bruce is _hugging_ him?

Jason snarls, but tears betray him and he stutters out, "I'm a grown ass man! You c-can't just... _hug_ me and make everything okay!"

"No, but I'm a grown man myself, and _I_ can hug whoever I want to. And right now, I want to hug my son."

Jason's knees give and Bruce supports him. Dick helps Bruce pull Jason out of the grave and the boy collapses soon after; from exhaustion, from distress, from hunger.

" _Now_ may I call Alfred?"

* * *

Jason wakes up in a familiar room-his old room. There's a tray of breakfast set beside him on the end table.

He reaches straight for the glass of lemonade.

Just before his hands grip around the glass, he notices the digital alarm clock beside the tray. Without knowing the exact time, he still knows this clock is off. He stares at the time, the neon numbers.

The last digit flashes, changing minutes, and in the same split second, Jason throws the clock across the room, into the wall.

He hears the thumps of footsteps. They're thuds. Not ticks.

The sound of someone racing to him.

He buries his head in his hands.

Why is he awake? Why is he _alive_?!

 _He's supposed to be dead!_

He doesn't see who enters the room—it's more than one person.

But it doesn't matter.

They're living people.

And he's dead.

And the _living_ don't matter to the dead.

An image is frozen in his mind, and even without its complementary sound, he knows what it means, and why it looms there, behind his eyelids and waiting. Frozen, unconcerned with time (the dead don't care about time). Jason just has to start it—rather, finish it.

0:01

* * *

 **A/N: (This may be long-I have a lot of thoughts on this fic)** I absolutely love 'Under the Red Hood' and 'The Lost Days', and Jason's history (Pre-52; I read RHatO and while it's a fun story, I refuse to accept the backstory they remodeled Jason to have) but beyond 'UtRH', I'm not familiar with much of Jason's involvement in the comics until the new-52 relaunch. I honestly think Jason is a much stronger character-rage and justice drive him and I know his character is highly unlikely to ever consider suicide, but there are moments from the comic, and movie adaptation, that hint, to me at least, that maybe he does realize he isn't supposed to be alive-he died, and this is unnatural, and yeah he's running with this second chance and stirring up hell, but especially when he's pushing Bruce at the ultimatum of either him or the Joker dying, he's 100% for it. He wants so badly for _one_ of them to be dead. He can't live (again) knowing the Joker lives too, and I just expanded on this thought that he realizes he's lost-the Joker wins. Bruce will never kill the Joker, and nothing his revival was supposed to bring about, whatever change he'd meant to stir up-it failed. He lost and in this fic at least, I just interpreted it as he's tired.

The theme of this story revolved heavily around time-Jason has this obsession with the countdown, and to be honest that and this whole fic stemmed simply from that short animation of teenage Jason noticing the timer and accepting his fate-just those few frames get to me and this whole fic snowballed from there (It honestly was going to end after the first segment but I couldn't stop myself and maybe I should have?!) There's irony in Dick and Bruce's dialogue (It's painfully obvious) to counter Jason's darker thoughts.

Being suicidal myself and currently recovering from depression (I say 'recovering' but that makes it sound like the process ends and it doesn't-Depression never _goes away_ ) so this fic was important to me to write. The brashness-the self-destructive manner; the overwhelming desire to be in control of _how_ and _when_ and convincing yourself to hell and back all your reasoning's for _why you have to die_ ; I wanted to convey what coming to that decision to die feels like, b/c I've crossed that line several times.

What always pulls me back? Friends and Family, honestly. The small reminders of things that do make me happy in a world where I know I'm not. Having goals, no matter how small or insignificant (Like finishing a fan fic that only one reader, or perhaps no one, is reading). So, that's why I chose to take Jason down this course and I know it's not in character so, again, I apologize.

(God, I am not encouraging suicidal behavior-if you feel sad, my ask is always open, and everyone says that, but ESPECIALLY if my crappy fic somehow reached you on any emotional level and you just need to yell at me for putting up something offensive or triggering, by all means do!)

Bruce is incredibly hard to right, at least in keeping him with his interpretation from UtRH-he just seems colder in the movie compared to the comic version. I'm juggling about the idea of continuing this one shot, maybe delving into Jason's recovery or treatment or maybe he just runs away-he's the _Red Hood_ after all-but the ending implies that the suicidal ideation is still there. The fact he still envisions the clock is a sign that he's not just 'slept off' the urge to die. It's not that simple. It takes time.

The middle was the weakest part of this story to me both to write and in the end I found-I wrote Jason's actions from my own experiences and I'm a walker-I'll just walk off to any location, whether it gives me comfort or a starting point or whatever-and I tried to imply that to Jason, it was important he started from the room he was living in when Bruce found him (Referencing more to the comics than to the movie at that point) because the night he met Bruce, he left that room, so in his eyes that night was where everything went wrong and he needs to start there, at that room, and then go the 'correct path'. My favorite parts of the story where the beginning, with the countdown, and then how his thoughts mirror that when he mentally starts his own countdown-I also guiltily enjoyed his banter with Dick and Bruce when they confront him because it's so easy to throw out jokes and quips when you're in that much pain and don't care anymore about anything.

I've always liked the headcannon Jason was a big reader, so the bit about the library might have been out of place but that's my reasoning... Also, I really~ skimmed over how Jason got out and away from that blast and mention that about a month has passed but really don't have much explanation for what Jason went through in that month, and it's obvious cause I BS'd my way through it in the story...

Again, I'm sorry if this was too dark, or the characters were all wrong, or if you just disliked the plot and story altogether. I probably put too much personal background into the development of this, despite it being such a quick fic I wrote in the past two nights, but I love Jason Todd and wanted to contribute to the fandom-if there's a next time, I'll try to do him more justice!


	2. 0:02

So, I decided to continue with this one-shot. I have a rough idea of the plot (eight or nine chapters) and really? It's therapeutic as hell to write out about my own experiences with depression-I know it's kind of (not kind of, it is) self-projecting my own issues on poor Jason's character, but I try (not hard enough) to twist them so the experiences and thoughts are more in character for Todd...I try at least...

This story is going to be dark-I say that because I'm taking a lot of cues from my own life to write this story, and while these things don't disturb me the slightest, I'm aware of how uncomfortable my experiences have made others around me feel. So, I can't personally say "The things in this story are messed up!" b/c to me, they're not. But judging by _other's_ reactions, I can claim, "Hey, I'm pretty sure this is kinda sorta dark material..."

So, ya, the characters are probably all OOC and there's some directional choices in this chapter I'm not particularly pleased with, but I do want to continue this story.

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Warning: There's language and suicidal themes (Heavily so)

* * *

The term of "screaming in their sleep" is thrown around so loosely; you read about it constantly.

It's an over-used trope meant to evoke trauma and fear, but always out of the witnessing party. You're always exposed to what the witness sees and hears, or it's glossed over what the victim is _actually_ screaming about. Why they call out in dreams and beyond—when they're awake.

Dreams of pure hopelessness? They aren't flashes of the past. You know how those end and no matter how bad, you know you make it through (Or at least, you recognize this is the same tune playing twice and _don't worry you get revived in a couple of months and you get to live again whether you want to or not)._

It's not the memories you relive—it's the _emotions_. Maybe you're back in school or you're a kid again-everything is simple—or you're fighting crime by your fa- _mentor_ (You are _not_ his son) and the situations are always fuzzy because you know this fight didn't happen or these words were never spoken. You recognize this to some degree isn't real—isn't happening, and never did.

But you feel _happy_.

And that's all that matters.

You don't bat an eye at how time doesn't sync up—how each scene flows to the next and you're not questioning where the journey from the streets to the manor, from night to day, went.

You don't notice because you're hit with a new emotion. It's a bait-and-switch.

One second you're elated and the next you're feeling whiplashed as something gets turned on its head.

Something goes wrong, _fast_ , and suddenly you're afraid? Or you're calm and prepared and you look at your options, your two paths, and you're forced to choose one, considering all morals and all options.

And you do.

You choose.

If you were awake, you'd recognize how the situation is wrong. You wouldn't make _that_ choice because the situation itself is implausible.

And the second you make your decision, you immediately want to take it back.

All that calculating you did in your head? All that weighing of pros and cons? It means _nothing_.

You're now well aware this is a dream, but you can't seize control of it. You can't change things because you aren't in control and you're overwhelmed with fear at that. You're pleading to take things back, to change what's been done or what is happening.

Your emotions have been on a roller coaster and have in too short of a time have been too strong.

So you're pleading to take it all back. You're crying for the dream to end—to put out the fire; to retract the bullet; untoss that battarang. And your desperation is so strong that you take control—you know it's a dream but your emotions are very real and the _pain_ is very real.

The dream isn't real, but _you_ are.

So when the guilt washes over you and you realize you're waking up, but can't let go—you haven't fixed things, you haven't righted your wrongs—you scream.

You know you're waking up and you know it's a dream but you scream out loud.

You scream when you're awake.

Because knowing this is reality isn't enough. Knowing it all was a dream, all not real, wasn't enough.

You need reassurance.

The dream felt so real and you need reality to challenge the dream, to prove it really _was_ all just a dream.

You scream not because the nightmare was scary or traumatic; though, looking back it was.

You scream because you want someone to hear you.

Someone to _find_ you.

Most nights you're alone and you know it. You're fully awake now but you still scream because there's a chance…But there isn't.

So, when you're suddenly not alone?

When your futile cries are actually answered?

Suddenly someone is shaking you and gripping you and that feels infinitely more real than any touch the dream contained. The emotions and thoughts are still fresh on your mind but someone is reeling you back to reality and in reality you don't have a reason to feel all…that.

You're numb when you finally are awake in mind and see light and feel the sheets underneath you and someone is enveloping you—touch. Contact.

You're real now. So stop screaming.

Right. You've still been screaming.

 _Stop it._

That's what it feels like to wake up screaming. And how the others handle that? It doesn't matter. The fact that there are others, to even witness, is enough. It's comforting to you as much as it's terrifying to them.

* * *

For an indefinite amount of time, Nightwing—Dick—has moved back into the mansion. He doesn't even try to make an excuse—he outright blatantly reveals it's because of Jason. He moves into his old room which is diagonally just down the hall from Jason's room. He leaves his door cracked while Jason's is wide open.

He wasn't there for a lot of Jason's stint as Robin, but he's going to make up for it now.

Alfred seemed elated, as much as Alfred could express, to open the doors to Jason's old room. He washed the sheets, dusted every inch of the room; opened the bay window to allow in fresh air, set up vases of flowers…

Alfred leaves a tray of food at every mealtime, and each time he retrieves the tray he's disappointed to find nothing has been touched save the drink—if nothing else, at least Jason is hydrating himself.

Jason arrived at the manor in a fever. Slung over Bruce's shoulder and dragged up from the Batcave, he was unconscious and didn't regain consciousness for quite some time. Dick and Alfred have to hold him upright in a warm shower to wash the dirt off of him and dry him off. He sleeps through the shower and the entire next day.

The first time he awakens, Dick and Alfred are alerted to it by the sound of a crash and spark. Dick reaches Jason's room first, followed closely by Alfred, to see a distraught Jason and a discarded alarm clock that has made its way across the room.

Dick approached his brother hesitantly, reaching out a hand, but never able to close the gap of distance and touch him. He's not afraid of his brother—he's afraid _for_ him.

Afraid that with one touch, Jason will shatter like porcelain.

Alfred manages to speak up, because he's Alfred and because if there is anyone on the planet that Jason will always without a doubt listen to, it's Alfred.

"Master Jason…do you require anything..?"

Jason snaps his head up—his eyes are full of rage and red and deranged, but upon seeing Alfred's sincere look, he snaps back whatever threatening yell he originally was going to go with and instead resorts to a low growl of "No…no, nothing…"

He sounds exhausted and Alfred nods, "Very well…do continue to rest."

With that, Alfred retreats and Dick is left alone standing beside Jason, but never acknowledged.

Jason rolls over, pulling the sheets over him, and in moments he's asleep again. He's exhausted himself.

Dick continues to stand there, flabbergasted at what to do.

* * *

Jason sleeps the next day away before he wakes again. This time, he spares any furniture or digital devices and calls attention to himself the old-fashioned way.

Screaming.

It's muffled—it's short gasps of breadth being spent as hard as they can to call attention. It's not a pure scream, but a cry out.

Dick, again, is the first the respond. He spends his days in his own room and always on edge to react if needed, listening and waiting for Jason to do the slightest thing that calls Dick forth.

Jason isn't exactly subtle though, so Dick doesn't have to try too hard to keep his ears open for that ' _slightest thing'_.

Dick is in Jason's room in a heartbeat, watching the younger teen (He's still a teen, isn't he? Maybe he passed into his twenties…He had been fifteen when he died…did he age after being revived? He looks older, or did, but now, helplessly crying out in bed, he looks fifteen again—like he hasn't aged a day since Dick last saw him).

Dick again hesitates, but this time Alfred isn't there to save him—or Jason—so Dick takes it upon himself. He bridges the gap and grips Jason's shoulders.

Jason is awake; he can feel it, but his eyes refuse to open and he's still screaming, so Dick pulls his grip inward and now he's hugging Jason.

Looking back, he never had hugged the second Boy Wonder.

Jason's screams die finally, abruptly cut off, and Dick tenses—will Jason throw Dick off him? Bite him? Yell at him?

Jason is too tired to pick a fight though. If Dick wants to be all touchy-feely and crap, Jason can't fight that. It was something he had doomed himself to the moment he (implyingly) agreed to this arrangement. To this return.

Jason just slumps forward, too tired to fight Dick, and slowly Dick pulls apart and lays Jason back against the pillows. Jason's face is pale and his eyes are still puffy and miserable looking— _dead_ looking.

Dick calls for Alfred, who already was finally alerted by the few last, dying wails of Jason, and he instantly recognizes Jason has a fever.

No doubt pneumonia, or dehydration, or both and more. He spent weeks mindlessly wandering in the cold, being soaked through with rain and refusing to eat. He had been as cold as a corpse (Dick winces for making that comparison mentally) when Dick had helped Bruce carry him from the graveyard.

Even now, in the warmth of the manor with the rare sunlight beating through the window, Jason felt colder than any human ought to.

Alfred repeated an order to Dick that he'd missed in his trail of thoughts—one to fetch the heavier wool blanket from the hall closet. He does so quickly and when he returns, Alfred had expertly packed and tucked Jason under the sheets up to his neck. He takes the blanket from Dick and adds it over Jason, and buried beneath the layers Jason closes his eyes and let's sleep take him again.

He looks so rigid and still that Dick keeps recalling his casket—the doll, Bruce had explained later—and how he'd looked very much the same then as he does now.

But, to remind himself, Dick watches Jason's chest and faintly, but there nonetheless, the blankets rise and fall and Dick knows his brother is breathing; he's _alive_.

Alfred announces a few other precautions they'll have to take and some more chores he must attend to; he takes his leave, though returns shortly with some water and a paper cup of pills. He announces Leslie will be over shortly to evaluate and diagnose Jason, but that over the phone she advised that when he wakes, to take these medications.

Dick nods and silently an understanding passes that Dick will watch Jason while Alfred attends to other matters.

Dick pulls up a chair and passes the time by staring at Jason's chest, as if he still doesn't believe it'll continue to rise and fall—that this is all a dream and at any moment now he'll wake and Jason will be dead again—always—and Dick will be staring at a still grave and not a living brother.

* * *

Bruce doesn't visit Jason once. Alfred frequently visits him down in the cave and drops whatever reports he has on Jason's condition, but Bruce never visits him. He knows Dick is there and that's enough—for now, at least.

This isn't to say Bruce forgets Jason. No, he never could; and he means to keep to his promise.

He _will_ help Jason.

He just doesn't know _how_.

And when Bruce doesn't know something, he goes to work; he researches it, he studies it, he theorizes and solves…

But this isn't a murder mystery or some crime that has an absolute root that he can back-track to.

This is someone's mental stability and even the basic blogs for 'parents with depressed adult children' have no reference to 'depressed, angry children who have returned from the grave after brutal murder and were revived half mad due to an ancient, powerful pit of healing waters'.

(When prompted with questions of Bruce's child's 'all that apply' check boxes for ailments the child is currently suffering, Bruce checks 'PTSD' and 'Anger Issues/Lashing Out' but doesn't think that quite covers it)

He checks his father's study, the personal library, for any books on psychological diseases and mental health, but most of the information is outdated.

Bruce Wayne makes a charity appearance at a ward, with a large donation, and speaks in depth to the doctors about care for mentally ill patients. The press and staff eat it up, thinking how noble and wonderful it is that Bruce Wayne is showing such a genuine interest in this cause, and the doctors are happy to play along with any of his suggested scenarios, no matter how ridiculous.

As Batman, he spends his nights visiting famous psychologists and psychiatrists, assuring them he only means to ask a few questions discreetly about a patient. After the initial shock and a few cups of coffee, with several lumps of assurance that _the_ Batman isn't here to strike fear into their hearts or bring the hammer of justice upon them, they open up on everything they know and simply assume Batman is trying to get into the head of the latest madman criminal.

He gets most of the same answers every time.

"An untreated patient first a foremost needs professional help—they need to be checked in, put under surveillance and into an environment where they can't harm others or themselves—and evaluated by a professional directly."

"Each patient is a case-by-case. They need to be institutionalized, for their safety and the safety of others, and treated by a staff of professionals trained in handling the depressed and mentally ill."

"First step is determining if they're a danger to themselves or others. If yes, they should be checked into a behavioral hospital or asylum."

Bruce thinks half of this is doctors trying to promote the medical system and exploit its cash flow, but even the most sincere doctors admit that a patient, especially one surrounded by those who are unable to understand or better the patient, should be taken into the care of those who do.

Batman hears them out and concludes they all think Jason should be institutionalized.

 _Bruce Wayne_ only hears the words "take your son away from you."

He's torn, and therefore continues his search for answers—his search for another answer. _Any_ other answer. He just needs one physician to suggest a solution that keeps Jason at home and he'll be satisfied.

But none ever offer that miracle path.

He feels on edge, and Alfred pushing for him to visit Jason doesn't help.

Alfred claims Jason needs Bruce, to see him. Bruce knows what Jason needs, deserves, is an answer to how they're going to help him. And he doesn't have that right now.

Then there's the other thing.

"Master Jason should be alerted of-"

"No."

Bruce ends that argument there. Another time, another place. Now…now isn't the time to let Jason in on the loop of things.

(He answers the same when Dick mentions _that_ , and Dick is no more comfortable with the decision than Alfred but he respects it at least enough to follow Bruce's wishes)

* * *

Jason sleeps most of the days. Sometimes he wakes up with muffled moans or screams. Sometimes he feverishly half-wakes and says either terrifying or indeterminable murmurs that Dick catches but never understands, and sometimes he awakens and is grouchy and in pain and makes a tired excuse for a grumble before falling back asleep. He's never awake for long, and he still burns a high fever.

Leslie sets up two IVs for him—he's severely dehydrated and low on crucial vitamins. She leaves four medications, most for the fever and some to suppress any anxiety and a downer to keep him sedated in a sense. He has nightmares, some violent enough that he threatens to tug out the IVS, but Dick always restrains him.

Leslie leaves Dick, on her second visit, his own set of sleeping meds because his eyes have circles as dark and dangerous as Jason's and she orders him to sleep and take care of himself, or else he'll become sick and then Alfred alone will have to take care of both Wayne boys.

Jason, in his few waking and conscious moments, knows Dick is beside him. Sometimes it's Alfred. He doesn't need to ask, but he knows Bruce hasn't been in this room since he dropped Jason on the bed that first night.

Jason hates that he calls out in his dreams—that he stirs, that he screams.

Hell, he hates that he even has dreams.

They're never the same, but somehow are.

He's always by Bruce, solving some mystery or fighting some crime. No matter whom the suspect or villain, they always turn into the Joker at some point. Then there's laughter and suddenly Jason and Bruce aren't on the same team anymore. They're no longer partners—they're hunting each other.

The location-the scenario- is always different but they all follow the same pattern. They'll be in Bosnia, or Crime Alley, or even at the Lazarus Pits somehow. It's a standoff and Bruce always tries to talk Jason out of something. But he's always wrong. In Jason's dreams, Batman is always wrong, and Jason knows it.

And in every dream, Jason throws the first punch. He pulls the trigger, or throws the knife, or detonates the bomb. Sometimes Bruce—no, he's Batman now—gets caught by the attack. Sometimes he dies, bleeding out before Jason and Jason realizes _this isn't what he wants._ Other times Batman out smarts, out maneuvers, Jason and Jason feels the pain and sting and burn of death. Even if Bruce just punches him, Jason feels the burning of the explosion throughout his body and the pain of every beating from that damn clown and his crowbar.

No matter how hard Jason tries, one of them always dies. And the moment it happens, Jason screams because _not like this; why is he so angry with me? Why did I do that? Why did I strike out? Why-_

-am I alive.

His first thought with every waking moment is _why am I still alive?_

He knows how and maybe why, but _why_?!

He doesn't speak. He doesn't eat. He keeps sleeping, because he's tired and because there's a chance that he won't wake up.

He's not supposed to be awake.

The dead don't sleep.

They don't eat.

They certainly don't talk.

So, neither does he. Because, he is dead. This changes nothing.

Bruce and Dick and Alfred can play doctor for as long as they want to drag this out, but eventually? Jason will get his way. Bruce already ruined Jason's first plan, his big scheme and confrontation. He's not going to stop Jason a second time.

Jason is contempt with dying (again).

The clock still is paused at 0:01, waiting for the split second to turn.

Even with this heavy resolve, it's still hard to look at either of Alfred or Dick. So, he doesn't.

The dead don't even see, do they?

* * *

Dick doesn't say it out loud, but he thinks _why isn't Bruce here to take care of them as well?_

Alfred looks so in pain every time he is in Jason's presence, and Dick knows it kills him—to see the boy he'd helped raised as this suicidal, homicidal maniac-shell of a man that should never have become this monster. But, Alfred still comes. Every day, several times, he checks on Jason. He continues to cook meals and doesn't appear even slightly deterred when Jason touches nothing (When Dick isn't there, Jason will at least drink something, so Dick keeps disappearing every time Alfred brings a meal in hopes it'll encourage Jason to eat. So far, he hasn't).

Leslie visits with a dead expression. She tries to fake a tinge of happiness in her voice, like she's trying to uplift a child patient, but she doesn't smile so her words and expression and tone never sync up. When she leaves the room, she's a ball of nerves and stands on pins and needles. She looks like she'll cry if you touch her, so Dick never does as he leads her to her car.

Dick himself is unnerved, watching his brother slowly die. At first, it was hard to convince himself 'this is Jason. He's back, he's alive, and _that_ is him'. It's hard when he can't see Jason's eyes or face, because the younger doesn't look at him. His body is bulkier, older, scarred and toned. It's not the Jason Dick ever knew. But, he tells himself _it is_ and that's that. He knows this is the Jason who took his mantle as Batman's side kick. He knows this is the Jason whom he grieved over, and visited the grave of, and fought along the rooftops of Gotham over a month ago. They're one and the same.

So what does Bruce see when he looks at Jason? Dick knows what Jason _thinks_ Bruce sees—a failure. A mistake. A soldier. Dick hoped Bruce would see his son. But, why wouldn't a father visit his son?

Every time Dick tries to visit Bruce in the cave, he's gone. Earlier and earlier each night, Bruce is gone. Dick doesn't even catch glimpses of him in the mansion. It's exhausting—like trying to watch for two ghosts; one, you always know where to find but the other is constantly hiding.

Jason's fever breaks one afternoon, finally, and Dick is stirred from nearly nodding off by a hoarse whimper, "What are you planning to do with me?"

Dick is surprised when Jason speaks. Does he mean how are they going to help him? Does Jason still think they're going to turn him in to the police, have him taken to some prison? Rehabilitate him by whipping his memory or hypnotizing him?

Put him out of his misery?

"We're going to help you," Dick answers. They are. They're going to cure him, help him.

Jason chuckles, and it's a sharp, dry laugh.

"You said 'we'…"

Even Dick flinches at this.

 _Please, Bruce, don't make me a liar._

* * *

 _Liar_ , Jason thinks. He feels the animosity rising in him, but calms it for Dick's sake—he knows Dick is trying, at least. Trying to convince himself there's still a way of 'fixing' Jason. What if Jason doesn't want to be saved?

(Scratch that. They all _know_ he doesn't want to be)

He risked speaking, even though it goes against everything he knows—the dead don't speak—to get an idea of what the others had planned for them. But, of course Dick is out of the loop. Bruce could be filling out Jason's prison transcripts right now and Dick would think Jason's going to spend the next hundred years in this bed, getting "better".

What is _better_ , Dick? What will help— _cure_ \- him? Being watched? Eating? Is Dick hoping his positivity will simply wash off onto Jason if he sits close enough to him?

 _That's not going to raise the dead, Dick,_ Jason thinks.

He'd know.

* * *

Bruce walked up to Jason's room one time. It was after Alfred had set out supper, and therefore Dick had left the room in hopes Jason being alone would touch _something_ on the tray.

Jason was alone. Bruce was at the door. It was half open, but Bruce stayed hidden behind its frame.

It didn't matter. Jason's head was turned away from the doorway, towards the darkened window. He was sleeping. Bruce watched him only for a moment. Just a bundle under sheets, with a mess of black hair sticking out at the top. Faint rising and falling, occasional shuddering of shoulders…

Bruce kept looking at Jason, convincing himself _this was his son, not a patient. Not a criminal._

But wasn't he both?

Conflicted, Bruce didn't step into the room. He turned tail and went directly for the cave. He opted for the jet this night and announced he'd be back much later than usual; his next trip was going to be a bit longer. This, of course, he told to empty walls and the case with Robin's suit inside.

In half the time it'd have taken a military drone, Bruce found himself for the second time in just a few weeks, after years of never approaching, Ra's mansion.

He didn't bother sneaking through the roof again or attacking Ra's.

Ra's was waiting outside on the balcony for him, hands crossed behind him. He looked somber, expectant of this meeting. Bruce already hated where this was leading to.

"My spies in Gotham informed me of the boy's survival."

That was the wrong thing to say.

"You knew he'd survived the blast over a month ago? How long?!"

Ra's frowned.

"It doesn't seem of consequence. What brings you here tonight only confirms that you now know-if you hadn't already suspected- and you've come to me seeking answers."

"If you know what I'm going to ask, then don't let me bother asking it. Just tell me what I need-"

"-You want to know what exactly the Pit did to Jason's mind. How can he be cured? If he can be…"

Bruce scowls under his hood.

"Recall, I told you, we knew only of a rumor that the Pit could revive the dead…I am as informed of the mysterious workings of the boy's revival as you are. I can only guess being brought back from the peaceful sleep of death would have effects on the newly-revived mind. It's a wonder he didn't return to this world brain-dead. He escaped, you must recall, shortly upon being revived by the Pit. We thought him as lost to this world as you assumed. What he did, and went through, over these past five years is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. I cannot say how five years of what I assume to be training, plotting, and living in utter hatred and betrayal can do to a mind. Especially a mind already damaged by the trauma of revival-"

"-You're not painting the best picture for yourself, Ra's. This is as much your fault as it is the Joker's for killing him the first time around!"

Ra's raises a brow. "The first time?"

Bruce frowns, and for a second doesn't feel like sharing, but finds himself admitting, "Jason isn't alive. He's as dead inside now as he was when he was… _supposed_ to be buried. Whatever energy he had channeled towards being avenged, is now directed to returning to being dead."

"Then, I am truly sorry. For that is a force no one can stop."

Bruce doesn't hold back, grabbing Ra's by his collar and jerking the man forward.

"If he dies, whatever peace truce you've built between us to _honor_ the mistakes of your past? I'll personally burn down. The Pits will not save you from rotting away in Arkham Asylum."

Ra's is released, and rubs at his throat, sighing before lifting his head to respond, "I, and once upon a time I alone, know of the Pit's healing capabilities. But, the Pit can have an effect on the mind. It can raise inner demons, inner emotions. I have fought the Pit's control for centuries—I alone wield the Pit with composure and control. I, in a moment of lapsed judgement, forgot of the demons the Pit can surface—it is a pit that defies God and Life, and is not without its price. The boy is paying it."

"All thanks to you."

Bruce had never imagined he'd hate anyone as much as the Joker, who he still fantasized daily about some crude, cruel torturous end, but Ra's was coming in at a close second.

"You felt responsible for the death of a boy—a child! Your recklessness in hiring the Joker was your _first_ mistake, and so to make amends for your conscience, which I don't fully believe you even _have_ any more if what you say about your centuries in the Pit are true, you not only _test_ some theory and defile Jason's body and memory, but do so aware that even if it _did_ work, which it did, he'd be damaged?!"

"I deny nothing…except that you put all the blame on the Pit. The Pit raises demons, but over time, one can learn to harness and control that. When the boy was resurrected, he was mad and raging and threw himself from a window—that was the madness of being revived, of the Pit. But this? Persisting madness after so many years? Surviving somehow in the shadows of the world, hidden from the watchful eyes of any, a walking dead man never to be detected yet to gain the resources he did? The Pit can work miracles, yes, but even that is beyond the Pit's ability. You seek answers from me, from the Pit, but in truth, it's the _boy_ who has the knowledge you need."

Bruce wants to punch Ra's because he's taking hardly any responsibility for this. Because there's the slimmest chance he's right. Because this is all his fault.

Because he, for just one moment, needs to blame someone other than himself for Jason's life, and Ra's is a good candidate for at least a few minutes.

"So you have nothing more to say?"

Ra's looks away.

Bruce nods. He thought as much.

He notices Tahlia standing in the shadows, listening and watching, but doesn't acknowledge her. He's back in the Bat Jet and on his way back to Gotham by daybreak before Tahlia finally bites her lip and whispers after his shadow, "I do…"

* * *

Jason didn't speak, even when he was conscious and more aware of his surroundings. He didn't speak of his dreams, or ask where Bruce was, or what were they planning to do with him. He didn't move. He stayed bedridden and still.

Like a corpse.

Dick would sit alone in his own room sometimes, head in hands, and sob into his palms a conversation he'll never have.

("Why won't you talk? Say _something_? Look at me, at Alfred! Do _something_ —Get up! Live! Jay, _live_ …")

Then he'd clear his face and eyes and return to Jason's side, sitting in silence and waiting patiently.

It's been two weeks now, maybe more. Jason doesn't keep track of days—time is for the living.

No matter how much he repeats his mantras in his head—speech is for the living, eating is for the living, the dead don't sleep, the dead don't care—he caves because if anything, it's as if someone is prodding his casket with a stick. Dick hanging around constantly…

Jason never had any last words for Dick, never had much to say to him. Even less so now. He couldn't stop himself if he tried, but he knows no matter what he says, it'll hurt Dick. And most of him doesn't even care.

"Shouldn't you be in Bludhaven?"

Dick is a kid on Christmas in a house that can afford presents when Jason speaks. Like a puppy wagging his tail, he jumps a bit in his seat—enough that the legs scoot on the floor and make a scoffing noise.

"I have—I'm taking some time off. No rush to return."

He was going to say something else—someone working in his place? Someone overlooking Bludhaven like a guard dog for him? Jason doesn't bother trying to think up what contacts Dick has made over the years- what other caped crusaders have joined him as an ally. Unlike Bruce, Dick never seemed like the type to work alone.

At least he was smart enough to never take under his wing a side kick.

 _Please let whoever it is running around at night in your place not be a Goddamn kid._

Jason wanted to be the _only_ walking corpse; no one else deserved the fate he'd been dealt.

"Go back." Jason tries. Maybe if he just barks it like a command, like Bruce always did, Dick will listen. If he thinks—knows, Jason reminds himself—that he's not wanted, he'll storm off and stop watching Jason die.

"Jason, you haven't eaten anything solid in days…weeks, probably-"

"-Dick; I'm telling you to leave."

"Jason, you've got to realize by now we're _not_ giving up on you. _Ever_. I'll sit by this bed for the rest of—"

"— _my_ life? Yeah, well, why don't you save yourself the trouble and skip ahead to a few days from now."

"Jason!"

" _Dick_!"

Jason shoots up, sitting, but instantly regrets it. He's woozy from the sudden movement but keeps his eyes targeted on Dick, even as a fuzzy blackness overcomes them for several seconds.

Dick stares at Jason's green eyes, and if they had any light, any emotion, in them once upon a time—it's gone now. Jason truly is dying.

"Jay…" Dick adds, softer. Jason grinds his teeth just as his eyes begin to focus, but his head is pounding. He's too tired to fight with Dick.

He's too tired to live.

Tick.

 _C'mon, Jason, you're smart. This slow kill stuff? Not your style. Let's speed things up._

Jason suddenly sighs, admitting defeat to his exhaustion.

"I'm tired Dick…I can't sleep right…"

Dick settles down, and Jason knows he's reeling him in. Show vulnerability. Desperation.

"I can't eat….I can barely drink…"

Tick.

 _List your grievances_ , he thinks. Dick's the kind of guy who will latch on to whatever he thinks he can help with.

"Alfred has some applesauce—you could try to stomach that, right?!"

He's so hopeful. He's so _fucking_ delirious.

Tick.

Jason doesn't smile—that's over selling—but he looks up.

"I…could try."

The magic words.

Dick is up instantly.

"I'll bring you some. You'll try it at least, right?"

Jason doesn't nod, but he doesn't say no. It's enough for Dick and he's gone instantly.

Tick.

* * *

The second Dick's feet hit the carpeted stairs, Jason sets his plan in motion.

First, the damn IVs.

He can practically hear every nurse and doctor screaming in horror when he yanks the needles out, his veins instantly pumping trickles of blood from his elbow, but he mentally reminds them all _he's had worse._

His feet, hell his whole body, are weak, but he continues to use the wheeling IV drop to stabilize himself as he rolls himself half on it, half on his numb feet, towards the bathroom.

 _Quickly, quickly_ , he thinks.

Tick. Tick.

At the bathroom's doorway, he has to push himself off the IV stand and toss himself towards the sink countertop to keep himself from hitting the floor flat out. He kicks his foot weakly back and the door closes. It's a reach, almost like he's tugging at that locked warehouse door again, but he manages to grasp the handle and turns the lock.

Tick.

He's alone, isolated—quarantined—in the bathroom now, and he lets himself fall ungracefully to the floor, resorting to crawling (It really is the warehouse all over again, he finds himself thinking) towards the bathtub.

He turns both knobs and sighs. _God_ , killing yourself is exhausting.

He's about to become the one person on earth that will be able to put to rest the question of what's worse—dying by drowning or burning?

His money is on the burning, but he's willing to allow drowning to make its own case.

He struggles to drag himself over the tub walls, and by now Dick has returned. He's confused for only a second before he hears the rushing water and as slow as Dick is, he quickly wraps his head around the situation. A fist and a foot are banging at the door, but Jason manages to slide into the bath, belly down, by lifting one leg over the walls and letting gravity do the rest. He sighs, relieved, as the water fills.

Thank God Bruce is so paranoid and has proofed this house so every room is practically a bomb-shelter.

Jason rests his head to the side, closing his eyes. Water feels cool to the touch, but also soaks his clothes, making him feel heavy. It's a strange, lulling affect, and he welcomes it.

These weren't his original terms, but neither was being watched day in and day out and force fed through IVs, kept alive on everything short of mechanical lungs.

Dick is shouting his name, but to Jason, all he hears is water filling his ear drums and the sound of air bubbles escaping from the corner of his mouth.

0:01

Tick.

* * *

Bruce hears Ra's words taunting him when he stumbles upon the scene.

" _For it's a force no one can stop."_

Dick is soaked, scrambling to pull a drenched Jason from the tub. Jason is awake and rabid, fighting off Dick's hold. His eyes are wild and wide, and as he splashes water about the both of them, Bruce can't help but wonder if this is how Jason appeared when he surfaced from the Lazarus Pit.

His green eyes are fearful, his pupils dilated—not out of fear of almost dying. Fear of not succeeding.

Jason is coughing and vomiting water and Dick is thrusting his fists up Jason's diaphragm. Jason looks like he wants to swallow the water back into his lungs.

Jason sees Bruce for a moment, snarling, before Dick slams his elbow down on Jason's pressure point, knocking him out instantly. Alfred is gasping, horrified beside the broken door. Dick's covered in blood, but Bruce can't put the source at any one spot because the water has spread the blood over his knuckles and arms and shirt and feet. He assumes Dick managed to punch or body slam through the door, and wonders just how Dick managed that, but doesn't actually give a damn right now.

Right now he's watching his eldest son cry, cradling his second, unconscious son in his arms while Alfred stifles his own sobs.

Bruce leaves for one night and returns to what was almost a suicide scene.

Bruce has to pry Jason from Dick's dead-locked arms to lift him and return him to the bed. Alfred brings towels. Dick continues to sit on the flooded bathroom floor.

He looks broken. Betrayed.

Bruce looks from Dick to Alfred, who is shaken up.

Finally, he looks to Jason, who moments ago looked as mad as that night in the apartment.

Jason _is_ mad.

He's not getting help.

But he's damaging everyone around him.

Batman turns and walks from the room after that. He announces he's going out again.

* * *

Jason wakes up to Dick sitting over him, again. Except, Dick doesn't look too happy.

"Sorry. Guess I wasn't hungry—I just wanted a bath-"

" _Jason_!" Dick yells, and his tone is so much like Bruce's that Jason actually shuts up. He's too tired for any proper quips anyway, because he'll never admit for a moment that Dick did surprise him.

"Jason, you're _not_ dead! You're _not_ alone, and despite your thinking, you don't _deserve_ to be either of those!"

Jason's head is screaming _yes I do_ but he keeps the argument to himself. He can't explain it to Dick. Dick wouldn't understand. The living don't understand.

"We all care about you! Do we really mean nothing to you? You don't see any reason to take this _miracle,_ this second shot at life and just _live?!_ Aren't _we_ enough? Alfred, Bruce and I? What about-"

"Stop."

Dick pauses. "Wh-what?"

Jason's voice was soft, but now he picks it up into a yell.

"Stop it! _Stop_ asking me to live for _you_ , or for _Bruce_ , or for anybody else! You don't get it,do you?! Everyone thinks it's some great miracle how I came back to life! They think I'm wasting this 'chance'! But none of you get it! This isn't a miracle to me…this isn't a second chance! You want to know what was a waste? My life. The _first_ time around." He's spitting venom at Dick but he has to understand—Jason _needs_ _him to understand_ _ **.**_

"You and Bruce…you all want me to live for _you. You_ want me to live. But you know who isn't getting a say in all this? Me. This is my life, my _second_ one, which is cheating to begin with, and I don't _want_ it! You'd rather me live in pain, constrained and every day wishing for death, simply so you can _what_? Sleep well at night knowing I breathe, even if it's forced? Does it comfort you to know I spend every waking moment thinking of death, of dying?! I hate my dreams, my memories! Am I selfish for wanting to do something with my life that isn't what _you_ want? Even if it's to die, that's still _my_ decision for _my_ life! Can't…can't you _see_ that?"

"Jay…"

Dick is stiff for a long time while Jason feels the strangest sensation overcome him. Tears.

When was the last time he cried?

"Jay…I know you're in pain, but it's…it's the Pit. You're just sick and…and we're going to help you. It's not going to happen overnight but…but if you give up now, if you die now…we're not being selfish. We're…we're thinking of you."

Jason sniffs and scowls.

He remembers the night on the rooftop. He knows better. Everyone blames the Pit, but…

" _Tsk_ , if you were thinking of me, you'd have asked me-"

"Asked you _what_? If you wanted to come home with us? Because _you_ did that. _Willingly_. _You_ put the guns down, and you _let_ us take you home. You _agreed_ to let us try to help you. So give us time to do that—to _help_ you. We _can_. You just have to stick with us."

Jason can't look Dick in the eyes, but he listens to his words.

There's a pregnant pause between the two before Jason speaks again.

"…I can't promise I'll ever want to live again."

"We'll work on that."

"And things like that?" Jason nods in the direction of the doorless bathroom. "I can't promise that's a onetime thing either. It's impulsive, Dick…It's a craving, a need…a ti-" He stops himself. The timer; the clock. _That's his little secret_.

"-tiring thought, but it's always there. It won't go away after just one of your pick-me-up speeches."

Dick smiles, because this debating, this bargaining, is _something_ —it's a step forward.

"I'll just have to keep giving new ones, then."

Jason rolls his eyes, groaning. "You probably have half a dozen written down."

Dick shrugs. He's had to talk a jumper down one or twice. He's not anywhere near certified to help strangers cope with their depression, but he likes to think he can help his own brother.

Jason settles down in his bed, pulling at the covers further.

"Dick…I'm tired."

"Keep sleeping then."

"-And hungry."

"…There's a bell to ring for Alfred. I'm not moving from this room."

"Seriously? You're gonna sit in that chair twenty-four seven?!"

"No, I'm going to sleep in that damn king sized bed of yours. Scoot over, you _totally_ can share!"

"Fuck off, Grayson!"

* * *

Dick wakes up several hours later and notices Jason sitting up, his face expressionless as he stares off in the direction of the bathroom.

Dick rubs at his eyes. It's got to be two am, or some other ridiculous hour of the morning. His sleep schedule has actually been set right, spending his days up with Alfred and Jason these past few weeks.

"What's 'e matter, Jay? Need t' use the toi-"

"…"

Jason mutters something, but Dick can't make it out.

"What's tha' Jay?"

Again, Jason mutters but Dick can't make it out. Except he thinks he catches one word and suddenly he's alert and upright because come to think of it, Jason doesn't even look fully awake himself. Is he sleep talking/waking? Is he having a flashback, some sort of PTSD?

"Jay?"

"…don't talk…"

Dick, for a second, thinks Jason is speaking to him, but he finally catches the full words.

"The dead don't talk. The dead don't breath. The dead don't sleep. The dead don't dream. The dead don't talk."

"Jay, hey, snap out of it— _Jay_!"

Except Jason isn't asleep or possessed or unfocused. He looks dead straight at Dick and the older boy _sees_ the sincerity in Jason's eyes now. He's not mumbling these words—he's chanting them to himself. _Reminding_ himself.

"Jay, _hey_ , you're not dead, remember? C'mon, we talked about this. You're living now, alright?! Don't think that way, don't go down that road-"

Jason slowly shakes his head. He's stuck on an infinite loop. The words keep repeating until they're too much—too many words. Soon they whittle down to ' _the dead don't'_ and then Jason is hyperventilating and his voice rises and now he's just screaming, "Dead! _Dead_! I'm dead!"

Dick is out of the bed and instantly standing over Jason, holding his arm and reaching to offer him water Alfred left on the bedside table.

Jason starts thrashing but it's not to attack Dick—it's to hide from him. Jason is throwing his head under pillows, curling into himself. It's a panic attack and Dick can do nothing but stroke Jason's back. He wants to get Alfred, Bruce, but he's afraid to leave Jason.

So, he doesn't.

He stands by Jason's side for thirty minutes while Jason has his attack until his eyes are too tired to cry and his voice is gone.

He's choking on snot, coughing because he can't breathe, and his eyes and nose are running like mad. Jason is a mess and Dick can't find a damn tissue box anywhere in this room, so he offers his own damn shirt because fuck it, Jason needs to clean his face with something.

Jason stares at Dick finally with sad, desperate eyes and Dick realizes this isn't the first time Jason's had an extreme attack like this.

* * *

"Alfred, I'll be back before dawn, but first thing in the morning, call Leslie and tell her not to come in tomorrow for the check-up."

Bruce doesn't have to look at his butler to know he wants to say something.

"Alfred?"

"Why, sir, am I calling Miss Thompkins and cancelling her appointment tomorrow?"

Bruce goes silent, still, for a moment before finally offering his cryptic answer, "Jason has the answers. He's the only one who knows…"

"Knows what, sir?"

Everything. The last five years, what happened, what he's going through, what he thinks and feels and— _everything_ Bruce has been trying to learn for himself, asking all the wrong people.

Or, maybe he did find the answer _he_ was looking for, but never recognized it. Never acknowledged it.

"Call Miss Thompkins, Alfred."

Bruce has always known the answer.

Bruce pulls up his cowl.

He's Batman now.

* * *

"How often do you have attacks like that?"

"What? That asthma attack? Pft, Dick, I'm not…"

Dick looks Jason straight in the eye and Jason realizes this isn't the time or place for jokes. He sighs.

"Since the Pit. Took a while for my wits, my memories, to return, but the _attacks_? The fear? I sprung from the well with that."

Dick flinches.

"Are they always that intense? That bad?"

Jason shrugs.

"Some aren't, most are. I hadn't had an attack in…months. Not since I came back to Gotham. Since I set my big plan in motion. I was focused; driven. I didn't have time to let attacks get in my way. But, after…when things fell apart, I couldn't keep them at bay. These breakdowns, these attacks…they'll get worse, and more frequent. It's an experience like you're out of your own body. Believe me, I've been dead and even this is an experience I struggle to explain. Your mind can't focus on more than a single thought, and it's terrified—it's obsessed." Jason looks to his own hands, disgusted by his own mind and body. Disgusted by what it does, what it's capable of, and the control it has over him—as if he and his mind aren't one and the same. He hates that lack of control.

Dick slowly nods.

"There's no way to stop them? Prevent them?"

Jason shakes his head.

"I've tried the meditation, the breathing exercises, the _positive_ _thinking_ …best to just let them run their course."

Dick bites his lip.

"We'll find something…maybe medications, or exercise, or…something. Maybe an activity, or a coping-"

"-Dick. Jason."

Both turn their heads when Bruce—no, Batman—enters the room. It's in the afternoon and the sun will set soon. The hairs on the back of Jason's neck stand on end.

He knows what this is about. He's seen this coming since day one. Bruce knows it, too—he can see Jason's acceptance in his eyes.

Only Dick is blind-sided, but this is what's best for Jason.

For _all_ of them.

* * *

"You're not serious?! Send him _there_?! _Away_?!"

"He needs help-"

"He needs _us_!"

Jason never saw Nightwing this angry when he was alive. And he _certainly_ has never seen someone stand up so vehemently against Batman, except for save himself.

"He's ill. He needs treatment. Care-"

"He needs to stay here—he needs to be _home_!"

"What have we _done_ to help him? Fed him a meal? Gave him a bed? They can do all that too, and _more_. They can actually take _care_ of him-"

"You _promised_! You promised _we'd_ take care of him!"

"And we _will_ —by getting him the treatment he deserves-"

Jason realizes they're talking about him, in front of him. He has no say. He's baffled by everything. By what Bruce is proposing. By what Dick is yelling. Jason wants to join, to speak up. To yell.

His heart begins pounding, that familiar feeling of an attack stirring.

The dead don't shout.

The dead don't scream.

"Dick, stand down…" Jason speaks, but it's a whisper and easily unheard by the two dueling vigilantes.

"He came _home_! He came back because you promised we'd take care of him, we'd bring him home! You brought him home-"

"I stopped him from killing himself!" Bruce shouts. "We can't do anything for him," Bruce winces, "right now," he adds. "He needs help we can't give him."

"He can't go there! You know what it's like there, _who_ is there! He's not a-" Dick hesitates to say criminal.

 _Aren't I?_ Jason thinks.

"Nightwing, stop." Jason tries again, using his codename to make it sound more formal. Still, it's a murmur that reaches neither target's ears.

"He has to go-"

"-You _lied_ to him! You lied and brought him here under false pretenses! He was better off staying away from you-"

"-and _dying_? He was better off staying in that _graveyard_?!"

"I've already died…"Jason reminds, not even bothering to try to be heard. He's quiet, so quiet. He sees Alfred's shadow; he knows the butler is standing outside the door, listening. Whose side does he take? "I am dead." Jason corrects.

Bruce and Dick don't hear him. They never will.

You can't hear the dead.

"You said he _needed_ us—that _you_ needed _him_! Was that a lie? Just to keep your conscious clear so you wouldn't be responsible for his death _again_?!"

" _Enough_ , Dick! The arrangements have been made. He's going-"

"To Arkham?! You truly, _honestly_ , think that's what's best for him?!"

Dick is red in the face with anger, and Bruce—Batman—is trying to keep himself grounded; calm.

"He's making a break through. He's getting better. You'd know if you just sat with him and spoke to him and saw-"

"I've seen the footage. I've seen Leslie's reports. The _bathroom_? The nightmares? He's _not_ getting better, Dick!"

Dick takes a stance and suddenly it's a challenge—a physical fight. Words no longer will solve things.

"You're not touching Jason unless you plow through me."

"Dick-"

Jason doesn't know who speaks, himself or Bruce, but he imagines its Bruce because his own lips are too busy murmuring a repetitive "I'm dead".

Strange thing is, though, that Bruce positions himself to fight Dick back.

Jason recalls the rooftop once again.

 _Kid steps out of place, you knock them down, eh?_ A side of Jason thinks. The other side is racing through thoughts of laughing and explosions and green pits and the feeling of terror and a single-track mind that is racing faster than you can calm and control.

" _Don't_ , Dick."

Dick doesn't respond. He leaps out a kick that Batman blocks, but Dick is already striking again with a hook fist. He's fast and he's not holding back—he's taking this fight seriously—you have to against the Batman—but Bruce is holding back. And that's Bruce's mistake.

Bruce is being sloppy, trying to soften blows, but Dick isn't. Dick is getting hits in because Bruce is too hesitant. Jason can't watch, but he can't turn away. His head is on fire.

"Dick, _stand down_!" Bruce snaps.

"You can't take Jason _there_!"

"They can help him!"

"You promised _we_ could help him! _I_ promised we'd help him!"

"I _lied_! We _can't_!"

This truth stuns Dick and Bruce realizes there's no other way to end this.

He slams his elbow to the back of Dick's neck, soft enough to not damage or hurt, but knocks him clean out.

Alfred has fled, unable to stand the sound of a father and son fighting, verbally or physically.

Jason is staring at Dick, sprawled on the floor, then at Bruce, hovering over Dick and slowly calming from fighting rage to aware horror.

Then, Bruce looks to Jason.

He's sizing Jason up, wondering if the youth will put up a fight too.

Jason stares back and thinks the same thing.

"When do we leave?"

* * *

0:01

* * *

Dick jolts upright in his bed the next morning, his memory vivid from the night before. He's on his feet, pounding steps racing towards Jason's room. The door is closed.

He slams it open, and sure enough, the bed is empty.

He finds Alfred hiding in the kitchen, but doesn't stop to interrogate him. Alfred isn't who he's looking for.

Bruce is in his study, a tray of cold, untouched breakfast laid out over a morning newspaper.

Dick is breathing heavily, angrily, in the doorway. His hands are shaking.

"What have you done?"

Bruce doesn't wince outwardly, but his eyes flicker briefly.

"The only thing that can help Jason."

"You've damned him. He'll die in there, you know."

Bruce bites his tongue, because he doesn't want to fight again and because he knows his next words could very well destroy Dick. And because he's still trying to deny the truth to himself.

 _Jason is already dead._

* * *

 **A/N:** A lot to say (always) about this chapter... Firstly, I hate that I crammed both a suicide attempt and a panic attack in one chapter, directly proceeding each other, but honestly...that's how it is. It makes the flow of the chapter too heavy at that part, but it had to happen. Jason is damaged. People think "Oh, you're suicidal-so you sit in a bed all day, dream of death, and people keep sharp objects away from you" but there's more to depression that the desperation to die, in my experience-there's the uncontrollable factors, like screaming yourself awake (I have only done so once and immediately after it happened, I wrote the beginning of this chapter-really, it was that nightmare that I woke myself from by screaming that pushed me to continue this story) and it's panic attacks that take over your mind...So, I'm trying to defend why they're both in this chapter and follow so soon after one another.

Bruce has a secret (It's kinda obvious to guess) that he's keeping from Jason, and so does Tahlia (Again, you can guess the secret). They'll both come to light soon enough, but there's little suspense there. Honestly, Bruce's reaction in this chapter was both how I envisioned Bruce would react, as a parent, but also heavily based on my own parents' reactions-they didn't know what to do with me when I revealed 'btw, I've had depression since I was eight and I'm severely suicidal'. Their answer to everything? Send her to a doctor. It's everyone's go to answer-everyone tells you to go see a professional, but the honest truth is that that's not the only solution, and sometimes it's not even the right one. Sometimes talking, seeing someone, being an inpatient, can worsen things, or can not have a positive effect-and sometimes it can work. But with such little known knowledge about handling depression, everyone assumes "send 'em to an asylum" is the answer always. Dick's voice in this chapter is the voice of reason I wished I'd always had-the person who recognizes maybe you need familiarity, and yes coddling, to get you on your feet again. Both are good intentions-unfortunately for Jason, his circumstances and homicidal tendencies leave Bruce with Arkham as the only option-no regular ward will do for arguably a criminal (There's not really an argument at all, but...)

A lot of Jason's actions and thoughts again, sorry, were my own self-projecting thoughts: which I hate, but life is the best inspiration, right? I've had the argument of "Stop asking me to live for you and let me die for me" before and honestly it was veyr hard trying to write from Dick's POV-I don't know how you try to counter the argument Jason/I have always proposed b/c no one has ever successfully swayed me to think otherwise. But, it is therapeutic, as I said in the beginning, to try to write characters trying to heal a character that you're channeling a lot of your own problems into...I'd highly recommend it. If it makes this story unenjoyable for others? Then I apologize and again I hope I don't cause any triggers or revelations of the depressing type or insult someone-I'm simply writing a story involving a character I love and a story I'm enjoying telling.

I probably had more to say on this chapter, but have forgotten by now...So, I'll post it, and any questions you have you can ask, or you can point out a mistake or anything-or simply read this chapter. I hope some part of it is intriguing or enjoyable!? Anyway, til the next chapter!


	3. 0:03

My finals are just about done-sorry this was so delayed! But, it's short and up and sets the stage for some meatier parts of the story getting ready to happen~!

This chapter has a Easter eggs-The book Jason is reading is a fantastic book/movie, if ya can guess it ;) And the Nurse's name is a reference to RH&O if ya catch that~

Disclaimer: Vulgar language, I own nothing, and this chapter isn't nearly as dark as the first two but still not super friendly...

* * *

The clock hanging behind him ticks on the wall with each passing beat.

Tick.

"What's your name?"

"I don't have one."

Tick.

"How'd you arrive here?"

"Batman brought me."

Tick.

"Do you have a criminal record?"

"Yes."

Tick.

Tock.

"Under what name?"

"I don't have a name."

Tick.

* * *

He's quickly passed as insane, and involuntarily checked into the asylum. He's pushed towards a room that's encased in darkness, yet the hallway directly outside is blaringly bright.

Jason's cell is no bigger than a studio apartment's kitchen. A cot sits in one corner with a pair of sheets folded upon it and a pillow with no case. There's a shelf for "personal affects" except everything from his shoelaces and, after some determining, shoes were confiscated. He was given a small tub with basic necessities—baby shampoo and a travel-sized deodorant; a toothbrush and some paste, all small and breakable and proofed in as many ways possible to prevent any suicide attempts with such items.

It was an asylum above all else; he was a criminal (at least, the staff had to take his word on it. He kept insisting Batman had personally dropped him off here, and while Batman was a grey area when it came to the law, the staff had grown to respect that if Batman left someone at their doorstep, that someone was bad news). So, the door to his room remained open, but was guarded at all times by heavily decorated Special Forces militia who sat in a foldable chair across from Jason's room. If he wanted to leave the room, to go to the bathroom down the hallway or request a razor to shave (and be monitored in doing so) he had to speak up to his guard. And if he even approached the doorway with a mild look of intent in crossing that doorway line without permission or speaking up first?

Jason swore his guard purposely would check his belt for his Taser, pretending to be making sure it was there, but really making a show of it so _Jason_ knew it was there.

Hours passed with nurses hesitantly entering to take blood pressure and vitals, recording data. Tech entered frequently with forms and surveys, questionnaires. A doctor visited to check Jason's head for trauma, testing his eyes for reaction and dilation. Jason seemed rather healthy—malnourished, but sound of mind. Well, until a psychiatrist began asking him what exactly brought him to Arkham.

"I should be dead."

Tick.

"…You mean you survived something… _traumatic_ , and think you didn't deserve to?"

Jason chuckles. "Something like that."

He's unnervingly calm. It doesn't bother him in the slightest that he has no recollection, or at least pretends to, of who he is, and that no database can recognize any combination of his tissue or identifiable features. His prints bring up no matches. His description has no match in the police database for criminals. The staff doubts he even is one—he claims Batman brought him in, but security footage reveals nothing.

He's an anomaly and there's a brief discussion about letting him go.

Jason knows that can't happen. Fine; they want a show _, he'll give them one_.

He's out his door in the blink of an eye—the blink of his guard's eye to be precise. His feet work quicker than the guard's hands and he kicks the man out cold instantly. There's a rush of nurses running _from_ the area and security _towards_ it, and Jason beats up a good two waves of men before he finally decides his point has been made and lets the team pin him down. He's injected with a tranquilizer and it works slow- slower than he'd have liked, but eventually he finds himself waking up newly in a glass cell, walled and fortified and it looks like his stunt worked. They believe he's a criminal now.

The decision wasn't that hard. Sure, he could have acted fine and dandy and been warily watched and released within a few days, but he'd just wander back to the gravesite. Did being captivated like this mean he was in a position less likely to harm himself? _God no_ , he was a creative and resourceful sonofabitch; these coats couldn't stop him if they tried—he'd just proved as much.

But Batman would no doubt check on him in a day or two to make sure Jason was still here—no, _not_ Jason.

He wasn't Jason Peter Todd anymore.

Not here.

He'd never admit it, but he was also giving this place a chance—a chance to ' _fix'_ him, like Dick promised was possible. At least, that's how he felt in this moment and for the next few hours, though he'd probably teeter between the two extremes of wanting to get better and wanting to die.

(He'd probably get some kickass sleep medications if nothing else out of this place)

He'd wait here, like a good prodigal son that he never was, until Bruce—Batman—visited him with further instruction. With his next step in this however-many-parts-plan.

* * *

Batman doesn't visit Jason for the next week.

Or two after that.

It's a month, a goddamn _month_ , before Jason realizes Batman isn't going to visit him. Batman didn't drop him off at Arkham to get better-he dropped him off to _relieve_ himself of Jason.

The nurses encourage Jason to eat, but after a week of not touching any meals, he's forcefully put on IVs—he fights them off, but strangely enough he doesn't feel that strong or motivated to fight the staff off him when they pin him down and tranquilize him. He gets the best sleep on those days, anyway.

His medication dosages rise every week. His sleep is so disturbed and full of screams and thrashes that he has a doctor specifically monitoring his sleep and he's always under surveillance.

Jason eats and sleeps and lives in his cell (If he ever does the first and he certainly isn't doing the third on _purpose_ ). He has an hour three days a week to be handcuffed and allowed to walk the grounds of the island. He does some exercise in his cell to pass the time, and over-exertion becomes a factor for his health that the staff warns him about; he's straining his body without proper nourishment.

He asks if that means he's killing himself. They look uneasy when they slowly admit it could lead to that.

They flinch when he smiles.

After that initial day, he hasn't purposely attacked anyone. He's been a proper house-guest. The staff and tech here are good people, doing their jobs and trying to make a difference in criminal's lives.

They're just wasting their time on him.

But, they don't deserve more shit and chaos from him when he knows several floors beneath him are people like Dent and Penguin and…

He tries not to think too much about who is in this hell with him. He's only reminded he isn't alone when a nurse or doctor enters his room for a daily check-up.

So now he's the ideal patient, who doesn't put up a fight or curse or struggle. He's just unnerving in the way that he refuses help, that he welcomes death, and that he casually claims to have no history and even has the lack of a record to show for it. No one can just disappear off the face of the earth. If only Batman would return and explain who this John Doe is or what he's done…

Jason gets day-time privileges, such as access to the activity room and the ability to take meals in the cafeteria. It means little to him; the only patients with cafeteria privileges are petty criminals with dope addictions who are being rehabilitated but never committed crimes worthy enough to mark them as Intense Security, like the lower level crime bosses who practically have photo albums of newspaper clippings with their show downs between Batman and themselves.

Jason doesn't speak much—not to any of the patients and not to the staff. He smiles, but even when it's polite it's psychotic and he's too calm and collected and maybe that's what makes him so insane.

* * *

There's a shelf in the activity room, which he's allowed in twice a week, with a handful of books on it. Most are inspirational quote collections—a few are previous patients' novels left behind. One of said books is a novel about a French citizen falling in love with a German Nazi officer whose regiment has taken occupation in her small town.

The book spends a great deal fleshing out the characters, minor and major, and showing the evils and good of both sides. It's all positive, with sprinkled conflict every now and then to keep it interesting. The woman fights her clear attraction to the Officer simply because everything in her mind and body tells her his people are evil, no exceptions. He gains her sympathy when he proves he's not quite like the "others of his kind".

But then he is. The Axis powers are shown in a flashy display to be little more than savages; reckless and uncaring, brutal and unfeeling. They raid the town and the heroine's hatred is once more fueled. Murders, manhunts and mayhem… in the end, the entire race isn't redeemable.

The heroine and her officer separate ways, and Jason sets the book down.

He's read it three times now in a couple of days and carries it with him everywhere—to the dining hall, to sessions, to his quarters. It's always by his side.

A Coat, as he thinks of them, asks him why the interest in the book.

Jason turns the question on the Coat.

"You think everyone is redeemable?"

The Coat smiles. What's this one's name? Henson. Henry. _Happy_? Something with an "H".

"Of course."

"What about Hitler?"

There's a pause.

Isn't that the generic gut 'em question? Bring up Hitler and suddenly everyone knows you're going for controversial.

"Well, _John_ …"

That's his name now.

"…Hitler is a _special_ case."

The word 'monster' hangs in the air.

Bullshit. Hitler was human. Jason, or ' _John'_ now, even saw back in the days when he attended school a textbook that had included one of Hitler's paintings in it; he'd had talent. But the art school rejected him (His style was too classical at a turn of the century where everyone wanted the next best, 'new' thing—they wanted art that pushed boundaries of the definition, not brush-stroke talent and a good eye for color and textures—so Jason thinks). He'd had ideals—he'd wanted to raise Germany from the ashes after the devastation of the First World War His ideals had just included mass destruction, ruling through fear, and the inhalation of several races deemed 'unworthy'.

"What about your book, John?"

Jason swings the book carelessly, like it means nothing to him. It probably doesn't. Just something to do in after hours when he's alone.

"It tries."

"Tries?"

"To convince you, the _reader_ , that everyone is human—redeemable. Everyone can have a second chance. Then, it switches logics. It decides a second chance is fine, but a third and a fourth is pushing it. You can't be redeemed after that. You're no longer a human."

"What are you then?"

"A monster."

John realizes the Coat was asking about the characters in the book who take one too many chances for granted, and not him personally, but the question is answered all the same.

"I think you're redeemable so long as you want to try to change your ways."

The Coat sounds like a fortune cookie. They take every negative, or questionable, thing that Ja-'John' says and just put a positive spin on it. Suddenly they've got the answer, the cure.

'John' looks at the cover of the book. It's tattered and the art is misleading of what the book is really about. It's not a love story. If anything, it's hate, and acceptance, and maybe that is love.

'John' hates this book.

"How many chances do you think life has given you?"

"Two."

"You sound very sure of that. What events make you think life gave you a second chance?"

"…Do you know what dying feels like?"

"I have a theory…"

 _I'll bet you do. Go ahead and tell me about it after session, I'll let you know if you're warm or cold._

"Let's say I died, then came back. That was my second chance."

' _Hypothetically'_ of course. No one comes back from being dead.

The dead stay dead.

"And what'd you do with that second chance?"

'John' briefly raises his hands at their surroundings.

"I'm here now, aren't I?"

"So, you think you're on your third chance?"

'John'—Jason—doesn't respond.

 _No, I think I'm a monster._

* * *

"Do you…do you really not remember anything?"

'John' has had a month to perfect his story. Bruce didn't even have to warn him not to reveal his true identity—firstly, no one would believe him.

 _("Jason Todd? Wayne's boy from years back? He died!")_

No documentation anywhere will support any claim of identity he makes. So, he keeps it vague but gives away enough that everyone knows he's a threat and that he deserves to be here.

"I woke up without any recollection of who I am—" Not a lie. Took him weeks after the Lazarus Pit to put back together his mind and memories—"and I killed nine men. Batman found me, and brought me here."

The timeline is iffy and the numbers are low, but they're not untrue. The patient currently prodding his own tray of what this asylum calls a 'meal' squirms uncomfortably and glances 'John' up and down, sizing him up.

His name is William "Specs" Dorman, or Doorman ('John' can't remember), and he's just a junkie that has run under Dent or Black Mask or some generic crime boss. He stole more of his cut than he sold and it's a wonder he's still alive. He likes 'John' because everyone else in the cafeteria is bulky and older and grittier, or at least pretends to be, and Specs is a whoopin' 145 pounds of bone and wireframe glasses.

He smiles and sits by 'John', letting the whole facility know they're buddies, but he's just as frightened of 'John' as he is the rest of the inmates, and 'John' wouldn't have it any other way.

 _You should be afraid of me. Don't get chummy._

Specs is a dependent on drugs and has only been in two fights in his life—one, a schoolyard shuffle, and the other he'd been knocked cold within seconds. He doesn't belong in Arkham anymore than your average junkie, but he was caught at the wrong place, wrong time (see his second fight for details) and he knows he's safer in here, laying low, than out there where Black Mask can catch up to him, if he ever bothers.

A nurse approaches them both with the lunchtime meds, smiling as she hands 'John' his dosage and grimacing through Spec's blatant sexual harassment that he claims is 'flirting in all good fun'.

Her name tag reads Isabel and she warns William not to bother 'John' more than he already bothers her. William whines that she needs to call him 'Specs'. She excuses herself, apologizing for 'forgetting, of course'.

She says hello to 'John', sweetly, and remarks it's a nice day out—it's almost sunny outside, and she congratulates 'John' on his privilege to go outside after lunch for his hour, though it's not by his design at all that he gets to, or that the sun is _almost_ out. Isabel just nods and waits for them both to take their pills—she has to report that they did as much. Isabel and Specs are the only two that still bother 'John', a month later, on what his name really is, or why he's really here. He tells the story three times a week, at least, to each of them. Even his regular doctors have given up on the breakthrough that would be 'John's memory returning.

He makes it a point to remind them both, each time they appear too friendly, that he's killed before. He constantly has to remind them where he currently is, where they _all_ are, and doesn't understand why they both still try to see anything more than an Arkham scum in him. He finds himself reminding Isabel he's a murderer even when she doesn't ask.

'John' doesn't know if she has any reason to believe him—maybe she doesn't want to. But, he knows she does. She can see it in his eyes—his lack of concern with human life. He holds the same discontent for his own life. She heard the stories from the staff working the day he was admitted—she knows about the incident where he took down nine security guards. _She shouldn't feel as safe around him as she does_ , the other nurses and tech warn.

Still, she doesn't believe he'd ever harm her.

There's something about him that overlooks her, and the rest of the staff—like they're not worth his time.

They're not deserving of his violence.

Specs just feels comfortable because 'John' doesn't greet him with threats and menacing glares, and that's good enough for him.

Isabel swears up and down there's something special about 'John'. She holds onto her theory that 'John' knows exactly why his vitals read so oddly—he had to have been exposed to something (it's the Pit's doing, but she doesn't know that).

She bites her lip-a habit. She'll secretly look into it during her breaks, but she'll never come up with a conclusion or explanation. 'John' never reveals one to her.

The internet and textbooks and science won't explain 'John's' condition. Batman perhaps could, if he ever shows up.

He never does.

Specs and her once discussed 'John', while he was in a session. Specs thought up ridiculous theories that were closer to the truth than Isabel would ever realize, and Isabel would try to pry any descriptions out of Specs about a new player in the underworld scene that might fit 'John's' description. Specs' best theory had been that 'John' could be his cousin's girlfriend's brother, who came into town half a year ago and was supposed to meet Specs at Thanksgiving but got held up at a shootout, and since then has been blowing Specs off. Specs tried calling 'John' by the name Julio once—'John' didn't respond and Specs shrugged it off. His cousin's girlfriend was a bitch anyway. No way was 'John' related to her.

* * *

John is pretending to read through his book again when Specs runs up to him, cackling like an idiot with " _dope shit, man_!"

John really has been tallying up however many breakouts of Arkham there's been in the past month, and pinpointing each weak point in the asylum's security that has been exploited for as much. He contemplates trying to get a message, a tip-off, to the police, or maybe even-well, anyone who can do anything about them—but doesn't see much point. If this hellhole could be salvaged, it'd have been by now. Now, it just deserves to burn to the ground with everything in it along for the ride.

Specs is jumping in his loose slippers, roughly two sizes too big for him, and claiming that John _has_ to come to the cafeteria _now_! There was an altercation earlier that morning, and because of it some schedules got moved around and so they're going to be just in time to see— _hurry up, John!_

John can't make any sense of what Specs is getting at but allows himself to be dragged by the kid (Specs is more or less John's age, though John carries an air of authority that Specs declares means John has to be older) mostly because if any staff catches Specs physically touching a fellow inmate they'll Taser him and John gets a sick, twisted pleasure from watching Specs yelp (kid deserves it for calling him 'Julio' that one time, for God knows why). Specs tugs a baffled John into the cafeteria, who still is not sure what they're rushing to catch a glimpse of, but all too late catches on to what Specs is babbling about.

"—hardly _ever_ surface above the lower levels, _Intense Security Wing_ and all…You know my sister's baby daddy's nephew _saw_ him once? His best friend from high school used to run under him, and he snuck 'em in to a rally once— _The_ Bat man almost showed up, too! Ah, that would've been something. The Bats _and_ the clown, all in one night?! Gotham _royalty_ , those two-"

John freezes when he sees him.

There, in the broad light of the cafeteria that leak through the barred windows, is _him_.

The Joker.

His hands and feet are chained and connected to a metal belt, and he's encircled by guards as if he's the most important person in this facility (he probably is). Some inmates are hollering cheers—others, death threats. No voice seems to reach his ears. His eyes are focused, like a fox, making their way across the room. He's reading the inmates, looking for anyone worth his attention span. His smile—that damn smile—only widens, if possible, when his eyes find a suitable target.

He's seen him.

"Look at all these… _animals_." The Joker spits, and everyone goes quiet to hear him talk. Specs looks like he's about to piss himself. John is ready to lunge for the kill.

"Y'know, when a dog is rabid, you're supposed to..." Joker lowers his voice, still grimacing towards John, "put them _down_."

There's no doubt in John's mind the Joker recognizes him.

He stands his ground, keeping his eyes focused on the green haired bastard. His pasty face looks delighted to have found a diamond in the rough—something fun to pry and poke at. His mind is already turning like gears, working in reverse to think just how best to use this newfound information to stir up some entertainment in this joint. To think, a zombie bird is here, _in Arkham with him_! How long has this little gold nugget been sitting under his nose? And he hadn't heard _anything_ about this?! _Absurd!_

A guard pushes at the Joker's back, forcing him to keep moving. His eyes never leave John's, not until he's escorted from the room completely.

Specs jumps in place.

"Did you _see_ that? He looked _right_ _at me_! Must think I look a bit like my sister's baby daddy's nephew! My dealer always said we _kinda_ looked like brothers, if ya squint!"

John is gone instantly, retreating back to his room.

* * *

He's been breathing for the past month. Not living, never living, but he's been breathing. And for what? John is furious. What's been delaying him from taking his own life? He doesn't have any sense of purpose—no reason to be alive.

He can't live. Not in a world where Bru—Batman allows the _Joker_ to live. It's not the same if he kills him himself. It _has_ to be Batman. Batman has to seek revenge, has to put that…

" _When a dog is rabid, you're supposed to put them down."_

John can feel himself foaming at the mouth. Who's the rabid dog? The _animal_ …

The hairs on his neck stand on end. His hair is in desperate need of a haircut—the white streak has grown back completely, without a dye-job to hide his Pit side-effect. It falls loose and long over his eyes, but he glares through them at the wall in front of him—at Batman.

" _Why_ didn't you kill me?!"

The shadow says nothing.

"You should've killed me! You should've _listened_ to me! It was _me_ , him, or _you_! You can't win! You don't get to win! Not everything can go your way! I _died!_ I _should be dead_!"

John grips the book he's yet to release and chucks it at the wall. It slams harmlessly against the shadow, the figure only Jason sees, and nothing is fixed. Nothing changes, and John doesn't feel any better or worse having thrown the book.

"I was _dead_! Do you _know_ what that feels like?! Do you know what it is to _truly_ , _actually_ be _dead_? It means I don't…don't have to _feel_ or _see_ or _live_ in a world where _he_ still breathes! Where you…you…"

Jason is hyperventilating now. His head feels lightheaded and his vision is blurring. Adrenaline is kicking in and he's seeing red. He wobbles slightly but pierces his nails into his palms. He keeps seeing the Joker's smile. The Joker knows who he is, knows he's here. John is no longer John. He's Jason again, to the living world.

John grips at his hair. Jason snarls his teeth. He grips the deodorant, the nearest object to him, and vaults it at the adjacent wall as well. He swoops low, gripping his sheets and yanking them up, pulling them off the bed. Jason takes a swing at the wall, busts his knuckles open immediately.

John slams his shoulder into the door. The slam is finally loud enough to catch someone's attention. He'll be sedated any second now, once a nurse or tech catches on to what he's doing and sees him.

Jason finds the book on the floor and throws it, again, this time out the doorway. The cover rips.

John yells, screams, incoherently.

Jason cries.

"Bru—Ba-!" Jason is gasping, calling for names. Calling for help, for death, for revenge.

"D-! A..!" He can't form their names. Who are they? Dock? _Tick_? _Dick_?! Afraid? _Alfred_?!

"Di-Death! Die! _Dead_! Killed! K-kill me! _Kill me?! KILL ME!"_

Four techs arrive, one with a prodded syringe ready to inject immediately. Isabel is in the back. In the hall, Specs is watching the scene, terrified.

"Jay! _Jason!_ Jason! Dead-!"

John is screaming and no one knows, or can make, any sense of it. Who is _Jason_? Is _he_ Jason? Is Jason who he killed? _Wants_ to _kill_?

Isabel is in tears. It's a show of emotion and affection and if anyone on the staff was paying any attention to her over the raving lunatic currently, they'd call her out on the unprofessionalism later. A nurse grabs at John's arm, but John swings at him, batting him off easily.

Two other guards rush John, easily pushed aside. He's blind with tears, his eyes sewn shut as he continues to rage, to yell, to wail. He's screaming for death, of death. He sounds like he's on fire, the way he screams.

Isabel looks away. Specs is now yelling from the hallway, asking _what's wrong, what's going on?_

"Hold him down!"

"Sedate him!"

" _Shoot him!"_

Isabel's eyes shoot open, wide.

" _Don't hurt him_!"

Specs hears the cry, too, running forward suddenly. He's light and quick, jumping over the blockade of nurses that have formed outside John's room. He is by Isabel's side instantly, ducking under her crippling form to dive at John.

"John, _quit it!_ These fuckin' psychos _will_ shoot ya!"

John, blindly, goes in for a kick but halts mid-action. He's frozen as Specs stands in front of him, and the hesitation is long enough for a nurse to stab recklessly at a supposed vein. It's not humane but it's all she can think to do.

John flinches, grimaces, and falls to the ground, convulsing. Tears are in his eyes and he's still muttering "Bru….Ba…-n…Bru-!"

* * *

"You really don't remember anything..?"

John sighed. Isabel was at it. Again.

"No."

He didn't need to answer her, but humored her regardless.

Specs is shaken, sitting outside of John's room like he's taken it upon himself to personally guard John's room. The real guards stand a few feet off- Specs has a nasty bite that no one feels like arguing with, so they let him stand by, if it'll make him feel better.

"The names..?"

John shrugs.

"Who's Jason?"

"I don't remember."

 _Not anymore._

"What…started it all..?"

"I don't remember anything."

 _Keep lying._

"You stopped...you didn't hurt Specs. I think...I think you recognized him."

John says nothing. He remembers the fit, but he had no control over it. And maybe he did stop when it was Specs-God knows why though.

"Not even your childhood?"

 _What childhood?_ John subconsciously rubbed at the scar on his hand.

"Not your family…father? Or mother? Siblings? Friends..?"

John retreated his head, trying to dodge Isabel's eyes. He didn't feel the strength to even shake his head in a convincing lie. Of course he remembered his deadbeat father, who died in prison.

(Or the pretender)

His addict mother who never woke up.

He never had a real sibling. He could feel the burning on his neck, as if Dick was watching his back even now.

Friends...

He thinks of Specs and Isabel. They're not friends, the three of them. But they could've been. If circumstances had been different. If Jason had never become Robin, he might have met Specs in Crime Alley. Maybe their friendship would've kept each other out of drug cartels and out of trouble with the law. They maybe could've worked their way up and out of the slums of Gotham-maybe found some jobs, saved up some money. Maybe even have gotten an education, met Isabel at University, or in a respectable place outside of a psych ward for drinks, for dinner. Maybe the three of them could've been friends, if their lives had been different.

John reminds himself his life already ended.

"No." He finally choked out.

Isabel grew quiet before jumping so suddenly, John himself flinched nearly out of his seat.

"Your childhood!"

John cringed.

" _What_?"

"Well, I was thinking….I mean, your test results give an estimated cell age, though they're…odd, to say the least. If we take the supposed time of your birth and check the records of all babies born in the year or two that we suspect you were born in-"

"In _Gotham_? Or the world? Isabel, you don't know if I'm from here. That's far too large a database for you to skim through."

"We'll start with Gotham!"

" _We_?!"

"What about a Paternity test?! We can't find _your_ DNA in the database, but what if we can separate and identify your father's-"

"What if my father is dead? What if his DNA isn't in the database, just like mine?"

"-We can set out a bulletin, see if anyone recognizes your face-"

"-Isabel, enough!"

"-Or dental records! Or-! _Or_ , the light! The signal! I bet…I bet, if we can get ahold of him, Batman knows-!"

" _ISABEL!"_

John jumped up. What was her _obsession_ with finding out who he was? He didn't even want to know who he was, and he had the misfortune of _actually_ knowing!

"Isabel… _enough_ ," he added softer, seeing the fear in her eyes.

It should be there. She's forgetting who he is—where he's at. He's a criminal, a killer, and a patient. Yet she treats him like some puzzle to solve or…or a friend.

Isabel finally let her shoulders sink.

"Do you really not want to know who you are? You're not one bit curious?"

John didn't answer. It was always the same.

No.

"What about who you _could_ be? You won't be a patient here forever…"

John scoffed.

"The staff would be _mad_ to let me go." Hadn't he just proven that? "Aren't there plenty of patients here serving several lifetimes over in this prison? Just give me one of their life sentences..."

Isabel's lip pouted.

"Do you really not want a life outside of here..?"

John froze.

Her eyes were large, her lips separated slightly. She inched closer, reaching hesitantly at his white streak-

No.

No one falls in love with a corpse. The dead don't love.

John stepped up smoothly, away from Isabel.

Her disappointment read all too clear and he didn't bother offering an explanation. Things weren't that way, and-

The excuse trailed off in his head, and just as well because Isabel didn't hang around to hear it.

She stood up, embarrassed and her head hanging, and left the room.

She stopped only to remark, "Will-Specs-is worried. Talk to him. Let him in, if no one else."

She looked back briefly. "He was right, you know. The guards…they would've killed you."

Now there's an idea.

* * *

A week later, John overhears that Isabel has transferred to Star City.

She'd think occasionally about 'John' on and off for the next few months. She even tried branching to a few old college professors about the possibility of splicing a DNA and running it through an algorithm to find parental matches. She picked up a book or two on it, and kept in contact with Abby, a nurse from Arkham whom she'd shared lunch with a few times, subtly dropping hints of her concern of that John Doe patient.

A year later she'd return to Gotham for a charity event awarding nurses and doctors to support her renowned boyfriend of the time, hosted by the Wayne Enterprise. Prior to the event, she'd brush up on the gossip and juicy rumors of Bruce Wayne, the billionaire, and find herself stumbling into pages of Wikipedia articles that document the tragic man's life, from the brutal murder of his parents to the lonely life he only filled with hollow relationships, night partying, and the occasional ward.

And she'd stumble upon a picture of the tragic second of Wayne's wards, Jason Peter Todd, and briefly she'd find that young face almost recognizable. Then, she'd string up her pearls around her neck, spend ten minutes deciding which clutch best matched her dress, and head down the hotel to meet her boyfriend, who planned to propose after the gala.

* * *

Specs sits outside John's door for a week, but every time John leaves his room, the smaller lad scurries and says nothing. Just as well, John has nothing to say to him.

John never thanks him, properly or at all, before Specs shows remarkable progress in his program and abruptly gets cleared for outside parole and probation. John only speaks to him one time before Specs—William—is released.

"I hear you're getting out. Congrats."

William nods.

"I just…didn't want to, _ya_ know?"

"Want to what?"

"Die in here."

He doesn't. William dies many years later, happy and fat and married, and of natural causes that have no trace to his former drug abuse habits.

* * *

It's quieter in Arkham, without Specs or Isabel. John is left alone far more often. None of the other staff members are as brave as Isabel was to approach him. None of the inmates could give two shits about him, and certainly don't admire him like Specs used to.

Jason continues to exercise, continues to not eat, continues to be infused with meds. The Coat from before tries to evaluate what went wrong the other day, when John broke down. He gives the Coat the same speech he gave Isabel. The Coat sighs and tries a pleading approach. They use Specs as an example. _See what can happen if you try to actively change your life around for the better?_

John doesn't want to be reminded of Specs.

"He's getting a second chance-"

John thinks about what Batman told him. In that apartment.

 _"Let me help."_

 _"It's too late. You had your chance."_

John grips his chair.

You don't always get a second chance.

* * *

John is flipping through the pages of a taped book, worn and yellow-paged, when he's approached by Abby, a nurse who goes remarkably out of her way to avoid speaking to John. She looks uncomfortable, but more so than that she looks baffled—disgusted even.

When she speaks, it's clear why.

"You have a visitor."

She's clearly revolted not only by the thought of her having to speak to John, but of anyone voluntarily wanting to.

Maybe it's a lawyer, or some lunatic thinking John's got an 'interesting case' they'd like to take up, pro-bono. Thinking his mystery is worth solving.

It's not.

John nonetheless gets up. Abby won't leave him alone until he does.

* * *

Guards clasp cuffs to his wrist and lead him through the detaining halls.

It's a change of light, from a gross yellow florescence to a natural, albeit barred again, window light in the visitor talking chamber. Several inmates and civilians are already lined across from each other along the glass panes.

John is prodded forward to an empty prisoner's seat.

Tick.

The other side of the glass isn't empty.

Tick.

John sits slowly, eyeing his visitor cautiously. He picks up the phone even slower.

Tick.

"Jason." The voice says on the other line.

They've never met, or spoken, in person, but they both know each other. Jason recognizes him from the pictures.

 _Tick._

Timothy Drake, his replacement.

* * *

**By my deducing and fudging after some in-depth research on the supposed ages and corresponding years of the Boy Robins, my conclusion is this—This is year Fifteen (Jason died in year ten and this film explicitly sets itself five years later). Jason in the comics joins Batman at the age 13 (roughly year 7), and by the appearance of him in the movie I'm placing him to have died at age 16. So, Jason should be twenty one—since he was revived seemingly immediately after he died, his body being switched by Ra's while still at the Bosnia American Embassy, he's gonna be twenty-one) According to the internet source I'm taking after, Tim was 5 during year 3, so by year fifteen he is now seventeen. Now, Dick I'm saying ended as Robin at the age of 17, and is currently 25—as he was immediately replaced by Jason the same year he left (year 7). Tim becomes Robin at age 13, in year 11 (A year after Jason died). Some sources say Damien was born either year 6 or 7, but to keep him at age ten for this universe set during year fifteen, I'm having him born in year five (Which would be during Dick's Robin-run, if it at all matters). I know this messes with canon but the movie-verse is different than the comic verse and I'm allowed to take some liberties. So, Damien is 10, Tim is 17, Jason is 21, and Dick is 25!

 **AN:** All that said above, Damien I'm still debating whether he'll appear in this story-but, I did a lot of researching and fudging with the Robins' ages so I thought I'd post my conclusion~

Isabel and Specs are OCs and I'm not a fan of OCs, but It's difficult to tell this chapter without giving some characters for Jason to interact with since Batman and Dick are missing from this chapter. This chapter was Jason-centric, but the next chapter will go back and explain what Bruce, Dick, and now Tim~ were up to during this time and how they got to this point in time. The relationship between Jason and Isabel and Specs isn't a friendship-it was an acceptance and an unrequited crush on Isabel's part and that of admiration for Specs to Jason, but little else. This fic focuses a lot on second chances, and I'll spoil the story a bit that this trio was supposed to mimic a more well-known trio of _actual_ friendship that Jason is known to be apart of *hint hint*, though that won't have much as large an influence to the plot as Tim's appearance or what the Joker is brewin'-because the Joker is of course plotting something now that he sees that Jason is A) alive, and B) in Arkham with him.

This was short and not the meatiest chapter, but it's setting up for the Joker's plot in the story, Tim is introduced, and Jason has been completely abandoned by Batman to Arkham. There's reasons behind everything, of course, and updates will hopefully come out sooner now that school is finishing for me for the semester! So, I hope something about this chapter was enjoyable and I'll post the fourth soon!


	4. 0:04

This chapter picks up after 0:02, telling Bruce's and the outside-the-asylum side of the story. It has a couple flashbacks within flashbacks, which I hope are easy enough to pick out. This chapter is much lighter than the recent ones, and despite rushing this chapter out in two days, I rather like it!

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Warning: There's light cussing, but not much else beyond that. A lot of tiny references to things from the movie and the comics (Under the Red Hood and The Lost Days, specifically)

I hope you enjoy!

* * *

The guard glanced at the boy once over. He looked 14.

(He's 17)

"I explained to the nursing staff at the front already…I'm here on a school assignment-"

"Your _school_ sendin' ya to interview _criminals_?"

"Well, it's more or less my thesis. I'm taking early college courses on the psychological behavior of beings with frontal lobe and temporal damage, and the effects to short and long term memory as well as behavioral attributes that such damage can cause-"

The guard stopped following at the word thesis.

"Aren't you a bit _young_ to be writing on…that?"

Tim sighed.

"I need first and second hand sources, multiplies, and while I've spoken to doctors and specialists on the subject, a firsthand account would solidify my position on the topic. Most patients sign against being publicly sourced, but this particular inmate, seeing as he's not classified anywhere as a person, lacks certain rights..."

The guard sighed. This kid was annoying, and so was this job. Nothing made sense to him, but he pulled at the landline anyway.

"Abby, there's a visitor here for that John Doe…which one? The crazy one…The crazy one with no memory…ya, alright." The guard hung up. "Go on."

Tim walked by the guard, rolling his eyes once he'd passed the man. At least the nurses at the front had asked where his parents were. Security here was rubbish. Did no one do fact checks?

* * *

"Dick? What are you doing here..?"

"Leaving."

Tim was surprised to return, finally, to Wayne manor, only to find his predecessor lingering in the halls. He had a bag in hand, which indicated he'd stayed overnight (quite a large bag—it had been more than a night). He clearly had gotten into a fight with Bruce, and was rushing to find Alfred in search of some misplaced item or whatnot. Tim glanced down the hall behind Dick to see a door slightly ajar—a door he'd never seen open or unlocked before.

"Alfred! Al-Sorry Tim, I'm completely ignoring you." Dick stopped to put his hands on Tim's shoulders, but there was less reassurance for Tim and more for Dick in the grip. Dick looked unwell, Tim thought. Pale, and maybe thinner…

"How was space?"

Tim blinked.

"Right—space. Interesting. The team pulled through…somehow. I got off the phone with my dad this morning—thanks for covering for me and telling him the summer camp was extended by another two weeks. It actually buys me a week still before he expects me back, but I called this morning to let him know I finally had cell service again…"

The Teen Titans had meddled with a minor crisis in space for the past few months, which luckily coincided with the summer months. His father presumed Tim had been at a football camp—he had enough bruises to make it appear that way at least.

Dick smiled, but it was a heavy smile. Tim wasn't the Greatest Detective's apprentice for nothing. He knew something had transpired while he'd been gone.

"So, did I miss anything?"

Dick is good. He doesn't falter, doesn't flinch or hesitate.

"The usual cast of crazies. I stopped by since it's been awhile since me and Bruce had paroled together; was feeling a little nostalgic. But, you know how he is—couldn't last too long. Sorry I timed my visit while you were gone!"

He sounded genuine, Tim thought. But, it was a farce. _Nostalgia_?

Tim smiled.

"It's alright. I've seen you and Bruce argue enough as it is."

This time, Dick's smile _did_ falter. Tim noted that as well. Whatever 'fight' Bruce and Dick had, it had opened old wounds.

"Anyway, I should be getting back to Bludhaven. Oracle and Huntress have been patrolling for me while I was away-"

"Away? How long were you and Bruce 'reliving the old days'?"

Dick, to his credit, still didn't flinch, but clearly got caught saying something he shouldn't have.

"Ah, just a couple of weeks. You know how Bruce gets when he doesn't have a partner. Thought I'd keep him company while you were gone."

Tim knew all-too-well how Bruce—Batman—was without a partner. Without a Robin.

It was why he became the third Robin.

Dick rustled Tim's hair, gave him that charming smile that assured Tim everything was normal, and walked on, still calling after Alfred.

 _To hell_ everything was alright.

* * *

Tim walked down the hall, appearing to be heading towards his room allotted to him whenever he stayed the night or simply needed his own space. It was two doors down from Dick's old room, which was still used occasionally for visits such as the one Dick had apparently just had.

He was rather, in fact, heading for the room that hadn't quite been closed, but had also never been open- so much as Tim could remember. Tim slipped into the room, taking in his surroundings.

He'd have guessed it was an extra suite room, since this hall was full of them—his and Dick's rooms included—but most, if not all, of the extra rooms remained untouched. Even Alfred, in his tidiness, cleaned the rooms only once a season or so, as the maintenance was relatively low for untouched rooms.

This was not an untouched room.

The sheets had been done up, and everything was clean and in place. But it was _too_ clean—not a spot of dust. Alfred had recently dusted and polished the room. Tim glanced closely at the end tables.

This was beyond an Alfred cleaning job. Finger prints, hair, any trace of human contact—had all been wiped clean. This place was simultaneously lived in but never touched. Bruce had gone through some effort removing evidence of whoever resided in here before Tim's arrival.

And then there was the bathroom door. It was alarmingly obvious to Tim—it looked like any of the other bathroom doors, all standardized and heavy-duty. But this one was too polished—cracks loosely covered with paint in the drywall and a set of new hinges with no sign of age in this ancient manor gave away that it was a new door.

Tim swept the room one last time, quickly, but found nothing. Absolutely nothing. Someone had been here, but Bruce—and Dick—were trying to hide who it had been.

* * *

"Master Dick, do you really wish to leave without a word to master Bruce of goodbye..?"

"Alfred." Dick warned, solemnly. It'd been three days since Bruce had taken Jason to…

Dick had almost gone after Jason himself that morning, but Bruce had warned him off of it.

* * *

"How the _hell_ could you do that?! The _Joker_ is in there! You're _killing_ _him_ , by sending him there!"

"It's what was best for him, Dick. He wasn't getting better here. They'll help him-"

" _Jason_! Say his name, _Bruce_ , it's **_Jason_**!"

Bruce stood there, unmoved with a stiff lip.

Dick scoffed.

"I'm _not_ leaving him there to rot. I'm going to break him out of there-"

"Do you _hear_ yourself Dick?! What will the public think when they hear how Nightwing, or even Dick Grayson, broke a criminal out of Arkham?! They'll label you a criminal—no one who ever gets broken out of Arkham ever has a good reason for doing so."

"The public?! That's what you care about, is the _press_? I don't give a damn-"

"You want to help people, don't you? Provide justice? Because that's why you put the uniform on in the first place. Don't throw away the thousands of lives you could save, doing good out there, for _one_ life by _damning_ your own."

Dick grit his teeth.

"I'll wear a different uniform! It doesn't matter, I'll get him out of there-"

"-he has doctors there. People who can round-the-clock watch him. And care for him."

"We could care for him! We _were_."

"It wasn't _enough_. He needs what we can't provide."

Dick bit his lip.

" _Fine_. So we allow him to stay there. For how long? When does the charade end and we bring him home?"

Dick sounded desperate. He always had too much heart invested, Bruce thought. _It was a strength, not a weakness_.

"I…I don't know how long he'll be in there."

Dick cocked a brow.

"You mean…you don't plan to pull him out of there? Ever?!"

"When he's cleared, the doctors will release him."

"But…we'll visit him, right?!"

Bruce flinched.

Dick's eyes widened.

"You don't even want to see him?!"

"Of course I do!" Bruce blurted. "But Bruce Wayne, visiting one lone John Doe? Even you, my ward…the press, again, would be all over it. How does Bruce Wayne know the mysterious criminal dropped in by Batman? What connection or charity does Mr. Wayne owe his one criminal?"

"Screw the press! Just say you've taken an interest in his story, you want just the best for him—"

"It's too risky."

Dick suddenly caught onto something and once again flared up.

"John Doe?! You couldn't stand his name that much that you reported him in as a _John Doe_?"

"No, the _asylum_ reported him as 'John Doe'. I just advised him not to give his real name."

"Why-?"

"-Because who is going to believe that a 5-year-dead boy has returned from the grave and now is a criminal? As far as any database or record is concerned, Jason Todd is dead."

Dick clenched his fists, refusing to look Bruce in the eye.

"So, we sneak in, at night, visit him in secret—pay off some guards, pretend we need his consulting on a case-"

"The more attention we draw on him from within the ward, the more attention other patients will give him. He needs to remain invisible while in there. He can't attract attention, or else people might go snooping. And the only thing worse than the public finding out he's Jason Todd, back from the dead, is the crime world finding out he's the Red Hood."

Dick bit his lip. He couldn't argue anymore.

"Tim's returning the day after tomorrow. What will you tell him?"

"Nothing."

"…And I suppose you want me to do the same?"

"Jason died, Dick. And right now, we're on our last straw trying to bring him back. Only you, I, Alfred and Leslie can know about these past weeks and of Jason's return. At least until he either recovers or…"

"Or kills himself."

* * *

Dick watched Alfred wrap up a snack for his trip home. There was still a whiff of bleach scent to Dick's hands from him and Bruce scrubbing down Jason's room. He _hated_ it.

 _Erasing_ Jason from this house, from _existence_. Jason _had_ to get better, he had to be cleared and _come home_ and—

Dick thought about Tim. Tim knew so little about Jason—just of what he'd read in newspapers, or witnessed while trying to determine Batman's identity. He knew Jason as the Robin he had to live up to, the Robin he needed to aspire to be, just as Jason had known Dick to be, except Tim's successor had died in battle. Jason, to Tim, was just a reminder that this wasn't just a game of cat and mouse and costumed chases every night. This was dangerous, and real.

Tim was a smart kid. Dick smirked. It wouldn't take long—Tim would find out about Jason. And when he did, Dick hoped Tim would give Bruce hell for trying to keep that a secret from him.

* * *

Tim entered the Batcave cautiously. Bruce wasn't supposed to be around but one could never be too careful when it came to the Batman.

Down the steps, the first thing Tim saw was what always greeted him; the Robin uniform of Jason Peter Todd, his predecessor. Tim always silently gave his respects to the case.

Tim had watched Dick's stint as Robin on the television when he was barely a boy alongside his family. He'd recognized those flips, but it'd been hard as a child to stalk after the Dynamic Duo at the time.

It wasn't until he was years older and Robin suddenly moved and fought differently that Tim had the access and ability to pursue his theory. He'd spied on the new Robin in person only once; everything else he saw via online streams, camera videos and police tapes (he wasn't proud of using his school's trip to the Gotham CPD as a way to sneak into the viewing room, but he had to be sure at the time that this _was_ a new Robin).

Jason Todd was declared Bruce Wayne's ward officially a year before he died. With Jason's death was buried his identity as Robin. Tim doubted anyone but himself knew Todd's identity outside of the Wayne household. It'd been a hard secret to keep, until he'd finally tracked down Bruce and revealed all he knew; all he'd learned.

It was hard becoming Robin, but worth it. Tim knew he had flaws—every human does. But the harder he worked, the closer he came to being like Jason.

Sure, Dick was the prodigal son, the first, the _original_. But Jason had passion and spirit and he didn't have the acrobatic background like Dick. He was from the streets, alone, and he was relate-able to Tim. Tim looked up to Dick, but if he was hard pressed enough, he'd admit he admired Jason more.

He wanted to become like Jason. Or, at least, how he envisioned Jason would have become like had he had the chance to live.

* * *

Tim started with the basics. He hadn't been back in Gotham for a full day yet, so catching up on the past months' news was his first start. He opened the Gazette's database, scanning the articles from the time he left for his own mission until now. He crossed referenced it with Bruce's own logs and data to match the important crime stories and skim through the puff articles.

The papers mentioned some turmoil in the underworld, with crime powers shifting, but remained vague and uninformed. Bruce's logs matched the dates and basic information given but…

Tim frowned.

There was a giant blank. The entire page- the entire month- was seemingly erased.

This had to be a hack, or a virus, or…

Tim pulled up the directory, checking the computer's history. The files had been deleted, purposely, by the command of Bruce.

Tim kept reading—the papers indicated a possible new player in the crime circle. Bruce's database mentioned nothing of anyone new.

It took a few weeks' worth of papers, but finally an article gave Tim something—"The Red Hood". A mysterious, helmeted figure that was simultaneously cleaning and controlling crime in the streets, attacking territory Tim knew mostly to be Black Mask's. Then there was a report of Mask's building catching fire. The Joker escaped Arkham. Another damage report soon after of an apartment building that suffered demolition in Crime Alley, though wasn't scheduled for such.

Tim closed the files quickly, erasing the computer' search history. The erased blog entry worried Tim, but more so it upset him. First Dick, now Bruce—they were hiding something. And it had to be connected; The Red Hood _and_ the visitor at the mansion.

* * *

When Tim returned upstairs, Dick was gone.

"Master Tim, would you like anything?"

Tim smiled at Alfred.

"Do you have any lemonade?"

Alfred frowned slightly before nodding.

"Yes, quite a batch actually. I'll prepare you a glass. Will you be taking it in the library or your chambers?"

Tim squinted. "My room. Thanks, Alfred."

As Alfred walked off, Tim took what little time he'd bought to enter Dick's room. They may have done a swipe of the visitor's room, but Dick's room may still hold evidence.

It's a mess, Dick's room. He didn't bother making his bed or arranging anything, and Alfred hadn't gotten to it—yet. The bed is tossed and sheets are sprawled. The desk is cleaned off, save for a neat stack of three books, all on the subject of mental health and depression. Dick's bathroom door is old, unlike the other room's, and shut. Tim opens it, and finds that all Dick's toiletries have been cleared out.

But, the trashcan hadn't been emptied.

There's a bundle of bandages with dried blood clear as day on them. Tim grabs a pen off of Dick's desk to retrieve one of the bandages. He's certain it's Dick's blood, but he'll test it just to make sure.

It's relatively fresh, under a week. So, in less than a week, Dick got into a large scrape, and one inside the house—all medical attention from missions took place either at Leslie's or the Batcave. An internal fight…Did Dick and Bruce fight? _Physically_? They'd never gotten into an argument like that before.

Tim heard Alfred's steps approaching the rooms. He quickly dove from Dick's room, closing the bathroom door, and hid the blood sample behind a pen holder on his desk just as Alfred entered his room.

"Lemonade, Master Tim."

Tim thanked Alfred and poured himself a glass. Curiously, Alfred remained frozen, watching Tim.

Tim set the glass down.

"Alfred, is everything alright?"

Alfred jumped slightly.

"Yes, yes, of course Master Tim. I was merely…admiring the fruition of my labors. It's good to see someone enjoying my lemonade." He said the phrase with a pang of guilt, from what Tim could make out.

"Of course, Alf! Who _doesn't_ like your lemonade?!"

Alfred smiled sadly.

"Not any soul alive, I believe."

* * *

Bruce arrives late, greeting Tim as if he had seen him yesterday. He retires quickly after dinner. Before Tim can suggest it, Bruce proclaims that Tim should take this night off, as he's only just returned to earth. Alfred doesn't say anything, and while Tim wants to argue, he realizes the opportunity and agrees.

Alfred retires to his study, a modest room with a few medical and classical literature to read, on standby should Bruce call on him. Tim announces he's retiring early, exhausted from 'jet-lag', and waits an hour in his room before making any move, to be sure Alfred has settled into his study and that Bruce is gone. Patience pays off.

Tim takes the blood sample and runs it through the Batcave's system. It tests positive as a match for Dick, which Tim isn't surprised to see. He then surfs the internet, checking a few conspiracy blogs for anything on the 'Red Hood'. It's an old alias of the Joker's, Tim knows, but he cross checks the surveillance stream that Bruce had installed and the times match up—the Red Hood is a new player, or at least a new 'Red Hood'.

There's even an article of a stand-off on the bridge, in which the Joker made a spectacle, holding Black Mask hostage to draw out the 'Red Hood'. The article doesn't reveal the outcome of the fight, other than that later, the Joker was returned to Arkham Asylum by Batman.

The fate of the Red Hood is undetermined.

Tim returns to contemplating on the apartment building in Crime Alley. It's due for renovation soon, and it's been over a month since it was destroyed, so no evidence would be left at the scene, but Tim is certain that the building ties in with Joker and Batman and the Red Hood.

Tim predicts Bruce will be out til 2 am at the earliest. Plenty of time.

* * *

Tim opts for a more discrete look—stealing one of Dick's over-sized and leftover hoodies and a pair of trainers. Tim hides a belt and a few gadgets under the waistband of the hoodie, sneaks out through his window, and rubs the slightest amount of dirt onto his face to give him a grungier, dirtier appearance.

It doesn't make him completely unrecognizable, but it certainly makes him look less refined, and a less tempting target for mugging.

He hops two railways to cross town to Crime Alley, keeping his ears and eyes sharp. It's never a quiet night on crime alley, but it's relatively so tonight.

A few prostitutes wave at Tim, but judge his height to mean he's underage and turn away. There's a gang of boys, teenagers of stockier build but about Tim's age, playing hoops in-between two buildings who don't give Tim a second look. He blends in enough with the hobos that flood this street that there's no use picking a penny off him.

There's a trio of men in rags surrounding a trashcan fire pit. Tim approaches them, though they look threatened by his approach, as if he'll steal their fire.

"I was wond'rin'," Tim tries, pitching his voice differently so he sounds more hyped, more scattered. He scratches at his neck and instantly the men assume he's some drug addict who'll ask for a hit or something. "You guys, uh, know anythin' 'bout that buildin' that blew a month 'er go?"

The men look between themselves, unsure of whether to respond or not.

"See, I'm in from Bludhaven and need, ah, well a place t' squat. Y'know, best places t' hide 'er always the ones already been hit, ya?"

One of the men scoffs.

"It ain't a buildin' no more," he mutters and turns his back from Tim. The other two follow his example.

"Ah, what'ya mean? What exactly…happened?"

The men look at each other but don't say anything. It's a kid that was hidden in the shadows that steps out.

"You don't know?!" The kid asks, like it's the greatest thing ever that Tim doesn't know the story and that the kid will have the pleasure of telling it.

"Aw, don't listen to Billy," laughs one of the men, but it's not an ill laugh of mockery. "He'll talk your ear off. You'll wanna squat somewhere else, is all we're sayin'."

'Billy' frowns spectacularly. Tim squats to his level. This kid looks nine or ten, living on the streets.

Was this what Jason was like, Tim finds himself thinking. Then again, the only time Tim ever got Dick to talk about Jason, he'd said Jason was a trouble maker, a bit of a loner, during his time in Crime Alley. 'Billy' looked like sunshine had struck the earth and formed this pure being of spirit and goodness.

"I'd love to hear ya' story, if you'll tell me, Billy..?"

Billy grins widely, one of his teeth chipped slightly. Tim inwardly flinches at the state of this kid, but remembers his mission and pushes his compassion aside briefly.

"Billy! And it's no story, sir! Me 'n Candy saw it all unfold!"

One of the men spits at the ground.

"An' what she was thinkin' takin' you out in the night and watchin' the Bats and the Hood fightin'…Ain't have forgiven that girl if anythin' 'ad 'appened to ya, Billy!"

Billy laughed.

"Candy just wanted some company for a walk! I was happy to hang out with her!"

"Candy gets _plenty_ of company, kid, _believe_ me," the third man grumbled. The first one hit at his ribs, glaring at the lewd comment.

Billy didn't seem to hear it.

"Hood? Whose he?"

Billy's eyes go wide.

"You really are new to town! You haven't heard of the Red Hood? He just appeared one day, declared war on Black Mask and his men, and took over half his territory! It was like he was gunning for Black Mask personally, targeting his supplies and shipments! At first, he'd steal 'em, but then he started just destroying the stuff!"

Tim cocked a brow.

"So, he had it out for Black Mask personally?"

Billy scrunched his face up in thought.

"Well, maybe…Dylan, who works the docks sometimes, says the Hood had it out for every criminal. He was taking over half the city! And in a month, no less!"

One of the men scoffs, shaking his head.

"He ain't had it out fer the Black Mask. They're all the same to him. He saw everyone who sold drugs or dealt in arms trade as a 'gansta', I hear. Yet he ruled over them all, and provided protection…for a cut."

"Sounds like a hypocrite," Tim blurts accidentally, realizing his accent had slipped slightly. But, the statement was enough under his breath that none of the present company cared much to notice.

Billy ignored the others.

"Me 'n Phil saw the news from the television shop! The night Joker got loose 'n called out the Red Hood—the Red Hood said he done it all just to draw 'em out!"

"He did not!" One of the men yelled. Despite showing an initial lack of interest in listening to Billy retell a story that Tim was certain they'd heard several times over, the three suddenly seemed very involved in the proper telling of it.

"Did too! Y'know, Phil says Joker escaped cause 'Red Hood' used to be his gimmick! Says Joker wanted to put down the pretender!"

Two of the men shook their heads while the third spoke, "Aye, I'll believe that," then coughed.

"So…what happened?"

Billy bit his lip.

"Well…then Batman showed up!" His eyes glimmered with excitement, which Tim nearly smiled to see, "And he tried takin' the Joker away, but the Red Hood caught 'im instead! They disappeared into the bay and…well, the news coverage stopped there."

"So…Red Hood got away with the Joker?"

"Mm, for a bit…But then, see, Candy was out of cigarettes and wanted some fresh air, and I offered to go with her, y'know, for protection," the boy proudly pulled back his red sweater to show his lack of muscle, but Tim smiled nonetheless, "an' as we were walking, we went by that church an sure enough saw the Red Hood 'n Batman fighting! It was really high up, so we couldn't see a lot of the fight, but there was fires and an explosion and one of the statues fell! Then they jumped into that building you were talking bout…"

Billy frowned again.

"What? What happened?"

"Well…me 'n Candy couldn't tell, but all's I know is somehow the Joker was there or got in there, cause when the building blew, the Batman and Joker were the only two there. Batman took Joker to Arkham, and now the city is thinkin' of puttin' a proper school in it's place."

"Probably just gonna be another bank. One on every corner these days."

"In Crime Alley? They wouldn't waste the money!"

Tim thought a moment.

"So, Red Hood died in the explosion?"

Billy smirked.

"I don't believe he did. I think he escaped."

"Why you admire that scoundrel…"

"I don't admire him! Well, not like I do _Batman_. Batman cleans up these streets—I ain't afraid of him!" Billy declared. "But…Red Hood was makin' Crime Alley a little safer…he didn't tolerate any dealer that dealt to kids! He cracked down hard on men who mistreated anyone, too! Cherry says he saved her from a bad date!"

Tim doubts 'Cherry' was on a 'date' that the Red Hood supposedly saved her from, but things weren't adding up. A criminal that cleaned up crime? But also ran it? And fought it..?

"He does things differently than Batman…he's tougher…" Billy looked down, and Tim understood what he meant.

The Red Hood killed. Batman didn't.

"But…he wasn't all bad for Crime Alley. It was kinda like havin' _two_ Batmans!"

"Ah, yer off yer rocker, kid! The Red Hood was as bad as the rest of them! He just had some moral dilemma or some bullshit-"

"- _Joe_ , watch your language in front of Billy!"

"Eh, yeah, whatever Lenny. Look, all I' saying is…It's a good thing Red Hood is gone. And the Joker, crazy bastard he is, is back in Arkham where he belongs. Mm, now that you mention it, wouldn't have been so bad if Red Hood had offed the Joker before he bit it."

Tim stood. Didn't sound like he'd get much more than that story.

Billy watched Tim reach in his pocket and pull out a wad of cash. The three men also watched with amazed interest, but none looked dirty enough to jump Billy for the cash.

"I, er, was savin' this for my next hit…" Tim explained, weakly, "But it ain't gonna do me no good if I ain't got anywhere to hit it anyway. Take this, Billy. Thanks fer the story and, er, buy a bus ticket outta here. Try a nicer city, like Central or Fawcett."

Billy nodded, a bit dumbstruck, but the second Tim turned he could hear Billy turning to the other three men and trying to split the cash four ways. All three men, even Joe, insisted Billy keep it. Lenny suggested _Fawcett was lovely this time of year,_ and had less crime rate than an alley named after it.

* * *

Tim snuck back in just before 4. He was exhausted, so much so he didn't bother scrubbing off the dirt from his face. No one was approaching or confronting him, so he assumed Bruce was still out.

Sure enough, not but ten minutes later Tim stirred to the sound of Bruce's footsteps.

Tim quickly buried his face in his pillow, hiding his grimy face just as Bruce creaked the door open. Tim slowed his breathing down to appear asleep.

"Master Bruce?"

"Alfred."

Bruce shut the door, but it remained slightly open as the two conversed in the hallway, just outside Tim's room. Tim strained his ears to make out their soft conversation.

"You, by _chance_ , didn't…"

"Alfred. We talked about this. I can't break in to Arkham anytime I want. It won't…It won't help him, to see me."

"Master Bruce, I don't agree-"

"-Alfred," Bruce warned.

"Sir…this, all of it, is a miracle. To…to have m-….to have _him_ back, it's…it's a blessing, not a curse. Don't turn your back on him-"

"-Again?"

Tim could audibly hear Alfred's retreating flinch.

"I didn't mean that."

"They'll treat him there. Bruce Wayne nor Batman needs to monitor him. He'll get through this on his own."

"Sir, if I recall," Alfred bravely spoke up, "The last time he was without your assistance didn't end well. Will that example teach you to not run to him, but rather run _away_?"

"Alfred!" Bruce snapped.

Alfred bowed his head, lowering his tone.

"I am sorry, sir. That was out of turn. Will you require anything else this night?"

Bruce sighed.

"No. I'm sorry, Alfred, I didn't…"

"I understand sir. I forgive you, as all should be forgiven." Alfred trailed off down the hall, Bruce stalking silently behind him.

Tim was wide awake now, repeating the conversation over in his head.

Arkham.

Someone was in Arkham. Someone Bruce and Alfred _knew_ was receiving treatment at Arkham. And it was someone they knew well. Well enough that Batman had failed this person once and Alfred was concerned about him.

The books in Dick's room made sense, and everything seemed to lead back to the secret they all knew but were keeping from Tim.

Red Hood, Joker, the visitor, the patient at Arkham—someone had to overlap somewhere. Theories ran through Tim's head, but above all, he knew first thing tomorrow, he was following the best lead he had.

He was going to break into Arkham Asylum.

* * *

Tim spent an entire month gathering what information he could pick up from hints and stories while hiding his motives from Bruce. Each night was an exhausting patrol, but criminals seemed scrambled—no one had gathered them all under one wing like Black Mask, or apparently the Red Hood, had. And some still seemed afraid of the urban legend that was the Red Hood. One criminal had even declared relief when they saw Batman—briefly—because Red Hood had grown into some hellish legend of a spirit that murdered in cold blood any criminal of any degree.

Bruce couldn't hide the name of Red Hood for long, but his explanation was brief and left out several details. Billy's story, and even the newspapers, revealed more than Bruce was willing to share.

"I'll catch up on him from your logs, then," Tim suggested.

"Not necessary. Red Hood isn't our problem anymore."

"You know what happened to him?!" Tim blurted. Bruce gave Robin a puzzling look while Tim quickly retracted his outburst, "I mean…we haven't run into him on the streets…Do you know specifically what happened to him?"

Bruce was silent for a moment.

"He went away."

"Left town?"

"Yeah."

"How'd you manage that? Or did he just decide to move on from Gotham..?"

Bruce didn't answer for a long while before he vaguely said, "I only ran into the Hood three times. Each time, he seemed less and less stable. Last I saw of him, he'd taken off."

Tim frowned.

"He sounds…unstable. Shame you didn't catch him. _Maybe_ …Arkham could have helped?"

Bruce kept his eyes forward, ignoring Tim. He was concentrating on driving the batmobile, but his silence gave more answers than any words would have.

The Red Hood was in Arkham. And Tim was willing to bet the Red Hood had also been the guest at the manor.

But why would Bruce take in a criminal to the manor, exposing his identity? Why only now send him to Arkham? The way Dick and Alfred acted…the Red Hood had to have been at the house just up until Tim got back. That was over a month. Why did Bruce risk that? Red Hood may have had some good intentions behind some of the things he'd done, by what Billy had mentioned, but he was still a criminal—a _killer_. So _what_ was Bruce hiding?

* * *

Tim had hacked the Arkham database for two weeks straight. With each firewall he cracked, Arkham would retaliate by installing a new security system, which Tim would also overcome. It was great practice, spending each night cyber-attacking the asylum, but each night he found no results. All the priors and identities and alibis matched with the intense security villains. He'd done enough recon in his spare time as he could get away with without suspicion for, but was pulling up nothing. Everyone checked off-no one matched as the Red Hood, depending on witnesses or known locations or even build and characteristics compared to the few pictures Tim could pull from the web on the Red Hood.

Tim nearly gave up for a while. He sat exasperated in the kitchen, watching Alfred make pancakes on the stove. As Alfred set the table, Tim absent-mindedly picked at the pancakes.

"If you won't eat the pancakes, Master Tim, at least touch some of the fruit. A side dish is _just_ as important as the main course."

Tim stared for a moment before jolting to his feet so quickly, the chair flew back.

"M-master Tim?!"

 _Side dish._

What if the Red Hood wasn't _in_ intense security? What if he was apart of the _low_ risk patient roll call?!

Tim had been so _stupid_ , narrowing his search so deliberately!

"I-I'm fine, Alfred—I just remembered some homework! I have—I'm going to finish it, before school!"

"Well, that's very inspiring of you Master Tim, but it's a Saturday morning and your school is not until Monday-"

"-It's gonna probably take me all weekend! Just…save my pancakes for later! Thank you, Alfred!"

* * *

Hacking the lower security database was far easier than the high security profiles, though the patient list was much larger.

Tim sighed, scrolling through all the names. He'd cross reference each patient with where they were during the time of the bridge attack, the time of Black Mask's building fire, and the night Batman and the Joker and, allegedly, the Red Hood fought in the building in Crime Alley.

Tim frowned.

He supposed he'd start alphabetically.

* * *

By the time Tim had checked and double checked every patient to the H's, Tim was ready to give up. It was taking weeks to go through all the data, and go on patrol with Batman, and keep up with his schoolwork, and return home to make at least an appearance in front of his father…

There was only three "I" patients, all of whom Tim happily crossed through quickly (one was female, another didn't match any of the build or height requirements to have been the Red Hood, by Tim's calculations, and the third was so brain-fried from Acid trips from as far back as the sixties and hadn't left the ward in over a decade) leading him to the "J"'s. For some odd reason, the records were kept in order by first name, which Tim found rather inefficient technology wise but made sense for nurses and staff who referred to patients by their first names and kept last names private for the safety of the patients.

Tim scrolled through the J's briefly. It was a long list.

But, one name immediately jumped out at Tim.

John Doe.

Someone without an identity...

Well, that _was_ the kind of person Tim was looking for—someone without an identity.

Tim opened the file, skipping the other J's before him.

The image pulled up revealed a young man, early twenties at most. He had black hair, which was mangled, and looked to be lacking sleep in his photo. The time stamp revealed the photo had been taken far too early in the morning for a regular patient's check in.

Height was 6'0".

Tim's calculations put the Red Hood somewhere between 6' and 6'2", with his military grade boots.

The shoulder-chest ratio matched Tim's measurements.

This John Doe had several blank spaces in his file. All that was answered was: his name, "John Doe"; his diagnosis, "MMD Severe Intense with Psychotic Features, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Amnesia"; his height, weight, and blood type, which was noted to match no database; and his method of voluntary check-in, with a note of the patient's quote.

"Batman brought me."

Tim printed the file and hid it under his mattress for an entire week, calculating what to do with this information. He was almost certain that this John Doe was the Red Hood. He was a low security threat at Arkham, which didn't match with his supposed actions, and according to his file, he wasn't identified as the 'Red Hood' or any alias. So, the staff at Arkham, no doubt, had no knowledge that this John Doe was Gotham's latest crime lord.

But how did Bruce know him?

* * *

Dick called.

Once.

He asked how Alfred was, and how Tim was adjusting back into the routine. ("Alfred's fine. He locks himself in his study a lot these days. I think he found a book he really likes and keeps rereading." Tim leaves out how distracted Alfred gets sometimes, caught daydreaming or staring off at a corner as if watching a memory replay in front of him. "I'm doing fine, I'm caught up on my homework and I've been out patrolling with Bruce). Dick doesn't ask, but Tim tells him anyway that Bruce is "same Bruce that he always is."

Dick sounds uncharacteristically unimpressed by this report.

The phone line goes silent for a moment before Tim risks his operation by asking, "Dick…Did you come across the Red Hood while you were with Bruce?"

They both know the answer is yes, but Dick still hesitates.

"Yeah…Yeah, I was with Bruce when we first crossed paths with him. Injured my leg that night, had to go back to Bludhaven. By the time I visited Bruce the second time, the Red Hood was gone."

"What was he like?"

Dick laughed, but it was fake; strained.

"What? He was like any other criminal we've gone up against—he had an agenda and Batman put a stop to it."

"What was his agenda?"

Dick winced on the other end of the line. He was already giving away too much.

"Hey, don't worry about the Red Hood—that guy was months ago. He's gone now and you won't ever see him in your lifetime.."

There was something bitter and remorseful the way Dick said that, sucking in air as his sentence trailed off, but Tim decided not to press it. He did, however, distract Dick by taking his mind off the Red Hood and striking up a conversation about Gotham's football team's latest loss. Dick groaned, "Tell me about it! We have no _defense_!"

* * *

Tim entered the Batcave as usual, giving his silent nod to the Robin uniform case, before meeting Bruce by the bat computer. The screen was blank, but Bruce was staring at it intensely as if reading something. Tim slowed his steps as he approached Bruce.

"Dick called."

Bruce didn't move.

"He's doing fine; says Bludhaven is a 'cake walk' compared to Gotham."

Bruce still doesn't move.

"He asked about you," Tim lies.

Bruce finally inhales, slowly, and exhales, asking, "Did he say anything else?"

"Just…just asked about you, me and Alfred I guess…we talked a bit about football…that was about it."

Bruce nodded.

"I'll call him later."

 _No, he wouldn't._

Bruce and Dick hadn't talked in...what had it been by now? _Months_?

Bruce stood from the computer, walking towards the batmobile. Tim gave it a lingering look before following after Bruce.

As Bruce set the commands of the tank to auto, opening the cave's larger entrance, Tim glanced back from the passenger seat towards the Robin costume encased.

He wondered if Bruce had always been this hardened, this secretive, towards his wards, his _Robins_. Tim knew Dick and Bruce had had a good run as a team, until their later years when they fell out. But what about Jason? Would Bruce have kept this 'Red Hood' mystery a secret from Jason, had he still been Robin now?

 _Only if it was to protect him._

So, what was Bruce protecting Tim from by not telling him about the Red Hood?

* * *

The printed file on the John Doe was kept folded and on Tim at all times. He wouldn't risk Alfred coming across the page while cleaning his room, because as much as he wanted to trust Alfred, he knew the butler was in on whatever conspiracy Bruce was leading. He spent a lot of time in the public study, out of his room, to clear his head. He paced back and forth, staring at the picture. It was in black and white, but the details underneath gave him enough information to go by.

Light green eyes. Black hair. The age, the build, the notes of his psychotic behavior. The file consisted of three pages—the first being John Doe's admittance page, with his mugshot and first night's details and recordings. The second page was a prescription page that had updated dates listed by every medication, all of which were an insane amount of dosage Tim thought, and recently corrected. And the third page was a study of behavior by attending nurse 'Lucy Davis'. Tim had done a search on her, only to find she'd transferred from Arkham, and Gotham, within the past month.

Her report was rather descriptive, and by her account, John Doe seemed well tempered and mannered. She made note of his sleep disturbances and lack of any memory, save for waking in Gotham, " _killing nine men_ " and finally being brought in by Batman to seek professional help. He had suicidal ideation—a strong case of it, Lucy had noted in small, regretful hand writing—and apparently avoided any social interaction with any other patient save for one 'William Dorman'.

Dorman had been released recently as well.

Tim was baffled by this character. _Is John Doe really the Red Hood?_ It added up more than any other theory Tim has worked through. The only missing link was the connection between Batman and this John Doe. A connection that Bruce felt was strong enough, apparently, to reveal his secret identity to.

Tim bit his lip. Was the Red Hood a recent friend of Bruce's that had turned bad suddenly? But, Tim couldn't recall this face from any gala or the Gotham CPD or _anywhere_ —not from the past few months, or even since Tim became robin. How had Bruce hid this new friend of his for five years?

That left the conclusion that Bruce had to have known this John Doe from before Tim's arrival. But this couldn't have been some old childhood friend of Bruce's—he was too young. Unless Bruce had made some close connection to another kid before Tim had arrived…a strong enough connection that Bruce would have revealed he was Batman to?

The only youths that knew Bruce's identity were the Robins. Bruce wasn't one to share his identity lightly.

This John Doe had to have been a kid Bruce knew, from at least five years ago, who even Alfred and Dick had been swayed to trust, despite being a criminal.

Tim stared hard at the photo. The young man looked so lost and hurt. His eyes looked dead.

Tim tried imagining what this man would have looked like at his age—were his eyes always so blank, so devoid?

Tim felt his neck hairs bristle.

He knew this face.

* * *

Tim sprinted from the study to his room, nearly tripping on a rug in his hurry.

When Jason had died, Bruce had removed any picture of him. Jason was practically erased from existence when he died, save for one memento—the Robin costume in the Batcave.

But, Bruce wasn't the only one with pictures of Jason.

Under Tim's bed, in a shoe-box he'd kept for nostalgic purposes, was his scraps of newspaper clippings and photo prints and Polaroid pictures he'd collected through most of his childhood. Pictures he'd admired and studied for countless hours when he'd been alone in his room while his parents neglected him for fancy parties and expensive getaways.

He shuffled through the papers that had been dated and identified to be Dick Grayson and went straight for the paper clipped images of the second Robin.

Of the John Doe, at an age younger than Tim's own.

Of the Red Hood.

Of Jason Todd.

* * *

The guards lead Tim to a booth with a phone in the side of the wall and a glass panel in front of him.

His heart was pounding.

He hears the diluted sound of a buzzer; the prisoner's side door being opened. Tim's heart is in his throat.

It feels like forever, but finally a figure comes into view and takes a hesitant seat in front of Tim. Tim's heart has stopped.

This 'John Doe' looks thinner and more haggard than even his photo. His hair is longer, and a streak of white has grown at the center of his hairline.

His eyes are a bright green, but just as dead as when they were in black and white.

But, despite the age and the differences, it's unmistakable. This is Jason Todd, older and _alive_.

His is Jason Todd, the second Robin who had died on the job and whom Tim had replaced the vacant position left in the wake of Jason's death.

This is Jason Todd, who was so bright and youthful in every picture Tim had caught of him as Robin, yet had somehow in five years become the Red Hood.

Jason lifted the phone. Tim followed suit.

"Jason." He breathes, because he's certain. There's no doubt anymore. Everything adds up.

Jason doesn't bother correcting Tim or arguing or pretending. He leans back, exhaling into the phone line. He denies nothing. He simply eyes Tim and finally responds in acknowledgement,

" _Replacement_."

* * *

 **A/N:** Tim is actually really fun to write! I really enjoyed writing his perspective of putting the pieces together, finding out how everything was connected. Of course there's still holes in what he knows, but now he has someone to answer the questions he has~ right?

This chapter really was lighter in tone, missing Jason and his psychotic obsession with the countdown of, his believed, imminent death. Billy is hinted at being Billy Batson, simply for fun and because Billy Batson is my second favorite character in the DC universe, so don't take his appearance too seriously-Tim needed a more detailed account of what had happened since the news never knows the full story and those who did weren't telling him, and what better network than the lowly and the homeless? To clear things up, Billy, and most of the innocents of especially Crime Alley, I'm interpreting as not holding the same moral high ground as Bruce-Bruce knows he's not above the law, and that he can't kill or execute-that's not his call to make. Red Hood obviously has no problem with it. I'll gladly debate anyone who wants to ask me what my stance is on the two's conflicting moralities, but I interpreted, for this story, that the common folk aren't as forgiving as Batman-they think criminals should be punished severely if the crime is severe. So, no, Billy is an innocent child who doesn't believe in killing criminals, but he understand Red Hood a bit better than I'd say Batman does.

Here's a behind-the-scenes flaw for you all~ In the second chapter, Dick slips up and says someone is watching Bludhaven while he's with Jason when Jason asks Dick about it-originally I was going to have that person be Tim, but needed Tim to be even more so out of the loop. So, in this universe interpretation, the Teen Titans exist-merely so Tim had an excuse to not be in Gotham. In the comics and the timeline that I addressed in the last chapter for this story, Tim became Robin in about a year after Jason died-so, to me, when the movie sped five years past Jason's death and didn't have an mention of Tim? I wasn't gonna stand by that while extending off of the story. Tim has a large part in this story, but I'm taking a slightly different approach than the comics. Originally, in the comics, Jason personally seeks out Tim and attacks him once it's revealed the Red Hood is revived Jason. Here, he knows about Tim, as hinted in the last chapter, but they haven't encountered each other yet-There will still be hostility, but it'll be a bit different...

This A/N is becoming too long! I'm sure there was more I meant to say, like pointing out whatever other nods and homages I'd referenced, or trying to pathetically explain the timeline which I'll admit even I'm unsure of (For some reason, I think the movie's events took place in a month? Then there was a month before Jason was found in the graveyard...and then he spent close to a month I think*? at the manor, and now it's been like two months of him being in Arkham..? And I don't think Tim's timeline matches up with that but whatever, time is irrelevant I'm sorry for the mistakes!)

So, this was part four. Part five returns to the current timeline, and the snowballs that were started in the third chapter finally get traction, only now there's the added player of Tim in all this and so things will actually have action and plot and forward motion~! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	5. 0:05

Sorry this update took so long! I'm a bit behind in school, trying to get thru for graduation~! I had the first third of this story typed up since back in January but couldn't get past a block until this Spring Break~ so here it is!

More plot points are introduced in this story~ To be honest, some parts seemed rushed to me but then I saw the length and if I fleshed it out any further it'd be too long comparatively to the other chapters~ So I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

Warnings; Just cursing in this chapter! Nothing triggering really...

Disclaimer: I own nothing~!

* * *

"Replacement."

Tim feels his spine bristle.

He used to imagine, _fantasize_ , about what his predecessor would say if they'd ever had the chance to meet. Tim wondered if _he_ 'd approve of him as _his_ successor, or if _he_ 'd acknowledge him as good enough to carry the Robin mantle on, as Tim never felt he was _truly_ worthy of doing so.

Now, he knew _exactly_ what Jason Todd thought of him.

He could only imagine what opinion Jason held of Batman—of Bruce.

"So you are him?"

Jason leaned forward, sighing away from the phone.

"B doesn't know you're here, does he?"

Tim is slightly thrown off by this, and retorts with a frown, "You haven't answered my question."

Jason's eyes look so tired, but enflamed all at once. It's a piercing look, like staring at imminent death, as he looks up and at Tim through the glass.

"You asked several questions. Which was I supposed to answer? And by not responding to them, haven't I _actually_ answered them all the same?"

Tim furrows his brows.

"I only asked-"

"-If I was him. If I am, or _was_ , Jason Todd. Red Hood. The _second Boy Wonder_ , the _dead_ Robin back to life?"

Jason scoffs and leans back.

"I'm none of those, kid. I'm John Doe, current residency," he waved his hands about him, "Arkham Asylum."

He really was Jason Todd. And the Red Hood…

"Did Bru-" Tim pauses, lowering his voice. There were a million 'Bruce's in the world, and plenty more 'Dick's. "Did Bruce and Dick get into a fight? A…physical one?"

Jason looks a bit taken aback, possibly even disappointed, that of _all_ the questions this kid must have for him… _this_ is the most pressing?

He rubs at his temple, then looks back at the guards.

"You're asking the wrong guy, kid. I'm a John Doe, I'm nobody. I've never met you before and you're wasting your time being here, doing… _whatever_ it is you're doing."

Jason makes to hang the phone up, but Tim yells a halting, "Wait!"

It calls too much attention to the duo and Jason is even more irritated for it. A guard looks like he's going to approach them, but settles back against the wall.

Jason begrudgingly holds the phone back to his ear.

"Kid. I don't know what you're doing here, or what you hope to accomplish…but give up. I'm not the one you should be interrogating."

"Bruce won't tell me anything."

Jason scoffs. _No shit, kid._

"Of course he won't. Don't you know? I'm his greatest failure."

Tim scowls.

"That's not true-!"

"-Do you really hold that man on such a pedestal that you refuse to see his flaws?! He'd admit it himself, if he could _stomach_ mentioning my _name_. In all the years since you've been Robin, how many times has Bruce _mentioned_ me? _Talked_ about me? Or was it all just warnings of what _not_ to do, who _not_ to be like?"

Tim felt his fingers going slightly numb, but refused to let Jason get to him.

"That's…Bruce didn't…" Tim trailed off. This wasn't going like he'd expected.

Jason sighed. He leaned in close to the glass.

"You've got questions. Take 'em up with B."

Jason made to hang up the phone again.

"Alfred wants you home."

The older youth hesitates at this. Alfred was everyone's weakness.

"And Dick won't talk to Bruce, or ask how he's doing…I think he's boycotting Bruce until…until you come back."

Jason scoffs.

"Dick and Bruce fight-" he catches himself.

 _You've been dead, remember?_

"- _fought_ , all the time. They'll use anything as an excuse to ignore each other."

"Dick stayed with Bruce until the day after you left…Bruce had your room swept, but it was too clean, too _soon_. Something happened the night you left, the night you came here…Did Dick and Bruce fight?"

Jason squirms internally slightly. This kid is smart—he'll never compliment the kid out loud—but the memory of that night, of seeing Dick so ferociously stand up for him…watching Dick refuse to give up on him.

Jason clutches his free hand in a fist.

"Tell you what, kid. You can ask me any question—hell, I'll even answer them. You can compare notes, write a goddamn memoirs book for all I care, but you can't ever come back." He looks the kid up and down. "You look like you're 14."

"I'm seventeen."

They both know this.

"Why?" Tim finally asks, because this is a deal too sweet to not have a price.

Jason shrugs.

"Because it'll piss B off, or because it'll get you to leave me alone. Take your pick."

It was out of his respect for Dick, to be honest (and a bit of the other two).

Tim sits up, like a true damn reporter wanting to give his interviewee every ounce of his attention.

"So, did Bruce and Dick fight?"

Jason hesitates, but nods.

"Yeah, they fought."

"What over?"

Jason shrugs, "Whose dick is bigger, probably."

"Seriously?"

"I didn't say I'd answer every question honestly."

"How'd you come back?"

"…You know, I always was just a soldier to B?"

Tim frowned. He didn't believe that was true, but what was more pressing was why Jason was dodging the question.

"That doesn't answer-"

"-To Gotham, I was just scum on the streets; a dead kid walking. To the world, for a little while, I was a side kick. And then I was dead. Except the nightmare didn't end there because suddenly I'm a piece in a chess game—an offering of peace. I'm a ' _get well'_ gift to a man who already had," Jason nodded at Tim, " _has_ , everything. Then I'm back to being _scum_ , and now I'm a nobody. It doesn't _matter_ how I came back. Only that I did, and that I _shouldn't_."

Tim stores all this knowledge, these answers, in his head. He's trying to piece a broken puzzle together but nothing is adding up or making sense and he's not getting enough answers. Enough _correct_ answers, at least.

"Why did you become… _him_?"

Jason scoffs.

"Look _kid_ , I don't…I don't expect you to understand. B is your _hero_ , your mentor…Once upon a time, he was mine too. Then, something happened. I _died_. And nothing opens your eyes up quite like death does. Coming back, I saw what B didn't…I saw the flaws in his ways, and I know, I _did_ , what he _couldn't_ and what was _best_ for Gotham. What he's doing, every night? It doesn't make a spit of difference. But me…I cleaned these streets up. I was doing good."

"You were murdering-"

"I was purging!" Jason yells, louder than Tim is expecting. "I was cleaning up Gotham. I thought that was my _purpose_ but-"

Jason cuts off abruptly.

"…but what?"

"Nothing." Jason scoffs.

"No, you-"

" _Leave it_!" Jason snaps.

Jason is breathing heavily and Tim's hair bristle. Jason is a split moment away from slamming the phone down, but Tim has too much left unanswered. He knows he has to tread carefully and quickly tries to amend the situation; take back control.

"What did Bruce and Dick really fight over?"

Jason runs a hand through his hair. It's long, unkempt and there's a strand of white in the front that Tim takes note of because that's not a common genetic trait.

Jason is in a fouler mood, but it means he feels less like joking, so Tim- if he treads carefully enough- can get true answers out of him.

He assumes right.

"…Dick and B got into a fight about…sending me here. Dick thought I should stay with them. You can see the problems with that," Jason scoffs. "B put his foot down; I'm a criminal, and _this_ is where I belong."

Tim wants to ask more, but Jason's patience with anything related to Bruce is thin. Jason's patience _itself_ is thin.

"How are you holding up in here?"

Jason is so caught off guard, he doesn't try to hide it. Someone asking about his well-being? And this kid, this _replacement_ , of all people?

Jason feels anger rise quickly. _What right does his replacement have?_

Jason stands abruptly and slams the phone down this time, signaling to the guards to lead him back. Tim is a bit dumbstruck before a guard on his side of the glass ushers him out of the booth.

All he can think of is how Jason's green eyes flashed when Tim asked him about himself.

* * *

" _I thought that was my purpose but-"_

Tim twiddles his fork in hand, replaying Jason's answers over in his head. Here was a damaged man who had died and come back to life. Here was a man who somehow overcame that shock and disarray and was now just…angry. He'd been betrayed by the only family he'd had left when he was alive-so he thought—and he'd left behind his morals and became the villain that he had always been trained to fight.

But Jason wasn't a villain. He was confused and lost, Tim thought. _Thought it was his purpose,_ he thinks over and over. That is to say, he's found a new one?

Jason doesn't appear to be in any way trying to get out of Arkham anytime soon. He's not eager to pick back up his mantle as the Red Hood. Something's changed. He's not seeking out the Joker, or Batman, or anyone. Anything.

He's just sitting in Arkham—withering.

Bruce watches Tim eye his food without touching it.

"Did Alfred not cook it all the way?"

(Of course he did)

Tim jumps slightly.

"What? No, he…no! Alfred's cooking is fine-"

"Then…are you not hungry?"

Tim hesitates.

"I just have a lot on my mind, sorry…"

"Obviously. Can I be of any help?"

 _Yes. You can tell me everything that Jason went through, and tell me what happened between Batman and the Red Hood, and-_

"No. I don't think you'd be much help…"

Bruce raises a brow. _Since when is he not of help?_

"I-it's just a school assignment. Research mostly…" Tim quickly covers.

Bruce frowns.

"If you need a night off from patrolling…"

"Actually, maybe just an afternoon. Libraries aren't exactly open past midnight, so…if it's alright with you, I'd like to skip training tomorrow? That way I can…get some answers. For my assignment."

Bruce nods.

"School is important."

Tim doesn't nod.

"I mean, it's not like my grades are slipping or anything…just don't want to give them a chance to…" Tim hesitates. There's an opening, if he plays this right…

"It's not like I'll ever let my grades get as bad as _Dick's_. I've seen his report cards from when he was my age."

Bruce maybe half smirks, but continues eating without a word.

"What about…Jason? Was he good in school?"

Bruce doesn't flinch or miss a beat in lifting his fork full of peas, but he doesn't answer immediately. There's an uncomfortable pause before he finally responds, "Why do you ask?"

Tim shrugs.

"I just was thinking how…Comparatively, to Dick I mean, there's a lot of things different between us. But…Jason, you don't talk about as much…so, I just am left wondering how… _different_ , or similar, I am to how he was…" Tim trails off. He's trying to sound genuinely curious, but give nothing away that he _knows_.

Bruce dabs his mouth with a napkin. His appetite is clearly gone, but he's forcing himself to remain unhinged and forces another bite down.

"You're _nothing_ like Jason."

It's cold, and quiet, and Tim's heart sinks. Whatever Bruce means by the statement, it leaves Tim feeling that much more sorry for a certain 'John Doe'.

"So, like…he's the complete opposite of me? _Was_ , I mean-" Tim quickly corrects.

Bruce scowls slightly.

"You have your differences. Jason never was…" Bruce stops talking, clears his throat, and stands.

"Don't neglect your schoolwork. Take tomorrow off. You better return home before your father gets curious why you aren't having dinner with him."

Tim frowns, disappointed not in that Bruce is shooing him away, but that Jason was right—Bruce _can't_ talk about Jason.

"I'll be fine. My dad's at the office tonight. But, thank Alfred for me. Dinner was good. The food, I mean."

Bruce feels guilty, knowing Tim's back-handed final comment was meant to address that his company was not, but says nothing as Tim leaves.

It's painful for Bruce to admit, but Tim is so similar to Jason. Bruce doesn't even see Tim walking away from him in frustration.

He sees Jason.

* * *

"Oi, John Doe! You have a visitor."

 _Son of a bitch, Drake._

Jason finds himself seated once again in front of a glass window with Replacement on the other side. The kid already has the phone in hand, waiting patiently for Jason to join the conversation. Begrudgingly, Jason lifts the speaker.

"I thought I told you-!"

"You didn't answer all my questions."

Jason sighs, running a hand down his face.

"Kid, I'm not a God damn _aquarium_ you can visit every other day and stare at!"

Tim shrugs.

"I figure my excuse about writing a paper for school on you buys me at least another week and a half of visits. I've got, coincidentally, just as many questions to fill that time."

Jason grits his teeth.

"That wasn't the deal-"

"Humor me. I'm sure it has to be some bit of relief to be able to tell the truth to someone instead of whatever lies you tell the psychiatrists every time you visit with them. Do they really buy that you don't have _any_ recollection of who you were?"

Jason inhales but the kid isn't all wrong. If nothing else, he admits it gives him some kind of pleasure to know that he's acting as a wedge between B and the Replacement. Maybe he'll build the kid's distrust of B up enough that he'll leave the costume behind before he gets hurt.

 _Or worse._

"Same rules apply as last time. I'm not obligated to give you honest answers."

Tim stares at Jason, unnervingly so, for a bit before blurting out, "What kind of student were you like?"

Jason outbursts an honest laugh.

" _What_?!"

Tim shuffles in his seat, realizing his slip up of a —relatively—unimportant question, but repeats it nonetheless.

"Student? Well…" Jason purposefully thinks on his answer. It's ridiculous, and he should just hang up and walk away, but talking to the kid beats re-reading his novel for the hundred-and-fourth time.

"Back in Crime Alley, I quit school pretty early on. B enrolled me, after he housed me, into a public school…I guess I wasn't terrible…when I went to class."

 _Bullshit_. He never skipped a class unless an emergency for Robin and Batman called for it. Hell, he hated missing a day in class. He was an A student who excelled in English. He didn't have the math skills like Dick, but he could analyze the hell out of any Dickens novel you named, and he knew sentence structure and diagramming like no one's business. Which it was.

Shame sentence diagramming was a dying art.

Tim, however, took more note to how Jason worded his becoming Robin as Bruce 'housing' him. Like he was a charity case orphan, which is probably exactly how Jason saw himself, if Tim had to guess.

"You went from questioning my morals of betraying B to questioning my grades? What, you startin' to feel insecure? Worried if your grades slip you'll end up like me? It wasn't a lack of literacy that opened my eyes, _Replacement_."

Tim glares slightly.

"Fine. I'll ask more relevant questions."

He tries, at least. After another round of beating around the bush of trying to figure out how Jason came back to life, or what he did during his brief run as the top competitor to Black Mask for control of the drug trade and underworld, Tim ends up circling back to rather personal questions with no importance to Jason's turn.

"=He made _you_ do that training exercise _too_? I thought Dick was kidding when he said Bruce had been perfecting it for almost a decade."

Jason scoffs.

"He probably baby-proofed it for you, compared to when he made _me_ go through it. You don't look like you could last an hour in that pit."

Tim chuckles despite the insult.

"I'm tougher than I look."

Jason believes it—he did his research, but he'll never admit as much out loud.

Jason finally sighs after a good twenty minutes of reliving some glossy memories of being falsely happy as _the Boy Wonder_. He's staring beyond Tim when he finally speaks up, curiously, "Hey, Replacement."

"My name is Tim. I _know_ you know that."

Jason ignores him.

"I've answered enough of your questions. I want you to do a favor for me now."

Tim cocks a brow.

"I'm not breaking you out of here."

Jason doesn't smirk, despite Tim thinking it was an understandable joke. Had he hit a nerve? Or had Jason just forever resigned himself to believing he truly never was leaving Arkham.

"I want you to check up on two names I'm going to give you. You don't get to ask any questions and don't read too into it. I just want to know their locations—they're not _hits_ , Jesus! Stop making that face…Just find out what they're up to. Got it?"

Tim nods slowly.

Ten minutes later, he's walking out of Arkham with a scribbled "Isabel" and "William 'Specs'" on a crumbled paper in his pocket. He frowns slightly, knowing this was a less-than-productive meeting as he learned nothing of importance from Todd. Still, it didn't feel like quite the waste of a visit he'd prepared himself for…

* * *

Bruce is staring at a grandfather clock when Alfred walks curiously into his study.

"Is Master Tim late this evening?"

Bruce doesn't remove his eyes from the clock.

"He's not coming."

Alfred stiffens, "Oh?"

"That was him on the phone an hour ago. He asked for the night off. Again."

"Curious. Perhaps school work is catching up to Master Tim finally?"

"I called his school. No assignments have been given, as its approaching midterms week. Everyone is studying for tests."

"Then, Master Tim must feel inadequately prepared for such tests-"

"He's already been exemplified from every one of them."

Bruce grips the ends of his armrests, visibly bothered.

"You think Master Tim is hiding something?"

"I know he is."

Bruce reaches into his pocket, emptying a small device of mechanical origin onto the ash tray beside his armchair.

"This is a tracker I slipped into his backpack-without him knowing- the other day. I found it in the gardens half an hour later, discarded under your hare hedge."

Alfred scowls, "Trust is a rather important quality, Maser Bruce. It's a key component in any relationship. Perhaps Master Drake stumbled upon your tracker and felt insulted by it, thus stashing it in the grounds. Have you not simply confronted him on his secrecy..?"

Bruce frowns.

"I trust Tim, Alfred. It's him who doesn't trust me."

"Of course. Because had he, he'd have left your tracker on him."

"Yes." Bruce cuts Alfred off, irritated. "It was meant for protection, so I'd know if he was in danger. But, wherever he's going, he didn't want me to know. And he made it obvious enough by discarding the tracker in the gardens and not somewhere less conspicuous."

"Perhaps it fell off accidentally?"

"That could be what he wants me to assume."

"So, will you track after Master Tim yourself, now that technology has failed you?"

Bruce scorns in Alfred's direction, recognizing that the butler is enjoying Tim's rebellion far more than Bruce would've hoped he'd encouraged him.

"No. Tim's smart. If he's onto me that I'm trying to track him via a _tracker_ , he'll be extra careful of watching his back for the _person_. That's my own fault—I trained him too well."

"You've never found fault in that statement before."

"He won't open up to me…"

"Have you tried asking outright?"

Bruce sighs.

"Alfred, I'm going to make a call."

"Rather unorthodox of you. At this hour? Anyone you tend to seek information from at this hour, you usually see to them in person. And in costume…"

" _He'll_ be up. And Bludhaven is a long drive simply to have a door shut in my face. A phone call will do."

* * *

"You were right about Bruce. I found the tracker finally the other day."

Jason scoffs.

"Of course you did! Did he bother stitching it into the interior seams of the bag, or was it clipped on?"

Tim frowns, disappointed.

"Clipped."

"Hah! That's how you know it's new, and it's not for your 'protection'. He'd have secured it better if that was the case. He'll catch on to these visits of your soon enough, I'm tellin' ya."

"No way! I back traced my steps twice on the way here and shook anyone that could have been a suspicious tail. I crossed my path and set up an alibi four blocks from here—the diner owed me a favor. Er, owed 'Robin' a favor…"

Jason stills shakes his head, "You won't fool him. He's-"

"The Greatest Detective?" Tim smirks. "Age affects everyone in different ways."

Jason leans back, all too comfortable with these visits. It's unnerving, he suddenly realizes, and he straightens himself up.

"Yeah, well, no matter how dull B is getting, you won't fool him forever. Haven't you already over-stayed your excuse?"

"The staff here think I'm writing a thesis statement. Enough of them have PhD's to recognize research alone takes at the least two semesters."

Tim looks too smug, too satisfied; it pisses Jason off.

"Well, I ain't humoring you for four more months. Wrap up your questionnaire. Reliving all these glory days makes it hard for a 'John Doe' to forget what he shouldn't remember in the first place."

"Can't the same thing be said about you fooling the staff here?"

"No. They're idiots."

"In a way, you kind of just complimented Bruce just now, you realize that?"

Jason raises a particular finger.

"Careful, they'll make you put a dollar in the swear jar if they catch you."

"That would be patient extortion."

"Ya, cause if there's one thing Arkham is known for, it's their law-abiding integrity and concern for the safety of its patients."

Jason snorts.

"Oh, hey, I checked out those names you wanted me to. Took some time—there have been a grand total of six 'Isabels' to work at Arkham in the past two years but I think I found the one you were talking about. Her last name is-"

"-No. I don't wanna know that. Just…how is she?"

Tim's curiosity on the matter of these two seemingly random people grows ever more so. He figures Jason came into contact with them here and means well, wanting to know how they're doing on the outside. But, more than that, it's a sign that Tim will gladly accept.

A sign that Jason still has attachments to this world.

"She's still in Star City. Works at the General Hospital. Taking night classes, too, towards her PhD. Joined a club city ultimate team. They have a tournament in Gotham in six months, if you want to save the date?"

Jason scowls slightly.

"And William is currently working at a car dealership run by his…" Tim squints, trying to remember the correct relation, "Uncle's…Niece's husband..?"

"His Aunt's step-niece." Jason corrects.

Tim nods, and the two go quiet.

The reminder of other patients suddenly causes Jason some unease, and he shifts slightly in his seat.

Tim notices this, and for the first time, a thought occurs to him.

"Have you seen _him_ yet?"

Jason flinches, "What?!"

Tim leans forward, lowering his voice.

"The…Joker, I mean."

Jason wants to snap back _"Of course I know who!"_ but instead feels his energy drain from him and sighs, dropping whatever front he otherwise would have half-heartedly put up.

"Yeah. Once. It was all it took, too…He made me instantly."

Tim's eyes widen.

"It's not safe for you here!"

"Keep your voice down!" Jason snaps. "He's not exactly going around publicly denouncing me, so—and I can't believe I'm saying this, but—take a page from his book and shush, or you'll out me sooner than whatever he's got planned."

"You think he's planning something?"

Jason doesn't bother answering such a ridiculous question.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

" _Well, Good Morning fellow inmates, insanes' and invalids! Oh, I suppose it's actually afternoon, isn't it? Well, you can't blame me for not knowing! They don't exactly shine the sun down there in the basement. And don't think I won't file a customer's complaint for that! Hahahaha!"_

Tick.

"The hell?!" Tim jumped from his seat. The intercom system had abruptly come on, and that voice…

Tick.

"The Joker is in the coms room!"

Tim almost made a run for it before he heard the muffled shout from through the phone.

"Sit down! You're not _him_ right now, right? You're just a _kid_! Don't blow your cover-"

" _I don't know about the rest of you,"_ the Joker continued, _"but I for one am bored out of what's left of my mind in here! I hear they save all the good games upstairs for the goody-too-shoes. That's not very fair, is it now? Hehe…Well, I for one am tired of playing_ Paper, Scissors, Croc _with Killer Croc! You know, I've been told before I'm very good at games! Great for parties, book me anytime- my schedule is open! Hehehe!"_

Tick.

" _So, I've got a game, and the best part is—everyone can play! Staff, crazies, even the ones not in here! It's a simple game, and the prize is, well…priceless, if you know the right people~"_

"What the hell is going on..?" Tim eyes Jason, but the older boy is glaring at the ceiling—if he'd had heat vision then and there, he'd have burned a hole through the tiles and busted his way to the com link room.

Tick. Tick.

" _It was, oh, I don't know, a few months ago that all ours' dear friend Blackie met Sally…or, 'Reddy', if you get my drift! I had my own run in with the guy—not a pleasant fellow... A lot of daddy issues, I think! See, thing is, everyone thinks he died back then. I know Ol' Smokey the Skull wishes as much! But, I've got news for you. He's well and breathing!"_

Tim's blood freezes over.

Tick.

" _Better yet? I got a glimpse under the mask and can tell ya…he's quite the looker! Now, you're all probably wondering, 'Oh, Joker, why tease us and tell us that the most wanted criminal in Gotham—aside from yourself, of course—is alive? What can we possibly do with this information?!' And this is where the game comes into play! Don't say Uncle Joker never did anything for you boys—and ladies. Let's not be un-inclusive now~! It'll set our generation back a few decades! I'm a progressive man, after all! Hahaha!"_

Tim's head starts shaking and his hands are twitching. _No, no, this can't be happening!_

" _So I won't suspend your curiosity any further! He's here! That's right—The Red Hood, the one-and-only Butch-Red-sidy and the Sundance Kid; the Red Fury, the motorcycle man who stood on par with everyone's least favorite costumed caper—he's here! In Arkham, as I speak!"_

Tim whips his head to Jason, but he hasn't reacted at all. He's still staring at the ceiling.

" _Now, thing is, this is a game after all~ So don't expect me to be pointing you to his room number and everything! There's no fun in that! But, I'll give you a hint~ He's not at my level…Literally! He's hidden amongst you common crooks and criminals and kooks! Top floor, no dank and dark basement for him, oh no sir! Hehehe! And I know some of you have your loyalties to some important men outside these walls—why, I hear Black Mask still has some power and control out there on the other side! And he'd be willing to pay a pretty penny for anyone who could deliver that red-shelled head on a platter to him! So, there are the rewards, the stakes of the game! Why, some of you chum could climb the social ladder with this win under your belt! There! The game has been set, rules explained! For those of you who are a little slow, I'll spell out the instructions for you—one more time only, now, so take notes!"_

Tick.

" _The Red Hood…is in Arkham. Only I know his true identity, so I'll know when he's been hit. Think of it like battleship~ you might have to guess a few misses before you sink the target! Hahahaha! Whoever offs the Hood, well…I'm sure today's benefactor will reward handsomely! Hehehahaha! This game is brought to you today in part by—Family Feud! I love that show, and you gotta admit, the irony is rich there, ain't it Hood? Oh, this last message is just for you!"_

Tim is terrified.

Jason continues to watch the speakers. The countdown starts.

" _Run."_

0:01

* * *

"Jason- _Jason_ we have to get you out of here! You're in danger! It's going to turn into a battle field in there! Let me help you, let me and Bruce-!"

Jason stands and just as swiftly hangs the phone up. His face is deadpan. The other prisoners are going wild beside him, begging their counterparts on the other side of the glass to get them out. They know the stakes.

Arkham has turned into- in one split second- a breeding ground for assassinations and shanks. No one is safe so long as the prospect of murdering your cell mate means favor with Black Mask. Guards are sprinting from the room; their walkie-talkies are going on and off with distress calls. Riots have already broken out.

Tim is petrified, staring at Jason desperately. _He has to do something!_ He has to help Jason, _this isn't the time for Jason to be shutting him out-_

Jason looks somberly at Tim, shaking his head slowly. The phone is hung but Jason still speaks and Tim makes it out perfectly.

 _Bye, Replacement._

Jason is telling him to leave it alone. To walk out of here and never come back. To let Jason fend for himself, if he even plans on putting up a fight…

Tim slams his palms on the glass.

"Jason! _Jason_!"

A guard has already approached Tim, gripping at his fore-arm. He's not to slam on the glass. And this is no safe place for a kid now, _you need to leave-_

Mirrored, a guard is forcing Jason back towards his room. Arkham is going on a lockdown. The guards need to regain some control of the facility-

"Jason!" Tim is yelling after him with no care if anyone hears him or cares to put two and two together that Tim is calling after a supposed John Doe by that name, but it's futile. The door closes behind Jason and he's now disappeared into the war zone that is demanding his head.

 _So this was the move Joker was plotting_. However he escaped from his cell—and whoever he paid off to have five minutes with the com—it's over now. He's back in custody but the damage is done and he's stirred a storm out of the dormant inmates.

Tim shakes off the guard's grip on him.

He has to help Jason.

* * *

Tim has barely crossed the bridge's road on his bike before he hears his name yelled from behind.

"Tim!"

Tim brakes his bike so quickly on the sidewalk, it tips and he stumbles to set his foot down to catch himself and the bike. Whipping his head back, he's surprised to find a certain vigilante in casual clothes walking casually towards him.

" _Dick_?! How'd-?!"

"Bruce called. Said you were hiding something." Dick sighs, looking back from Tim towards Arkham.

"I should've guessed you'd find out. You've been visiting him, haven't you? Jason?"

Tim narrows his eyes, his shoulders falling. Dick looks remorseful, but in all this time he's never gone to visit Jason. He's avoided Bruce for months now, so _why_ did he agree to pull this favor..?

"Dick…how'd you..?"

"Bruce told me about the tracker. It was obvious enough you didn't want Bruce to follow you or find out what you were up to. So, I did what he couldn't—I put myself in your shoes. I thought, _where would I want to go but not have Bruce know?_ I would've beat you here if it wasn't for rush hour traffic," Dick smiles casually.

"You followed me…for Bruce, but why?"

Dick sighs.

"No use lying to you since you've no doubt figured it all out. Bruce and I…we haven't been speaking, and this-" Dick motions to Arkham. "Is why. But, Bruce sounded really worried about you—as much as Bruce can sound worried. And I was worried about you too."

"Was..?"

Dick smirks.

"I'm glad you found out. Bruce told me not to tell you…said he'd do it himself. I didn't think he ever would, and I guess I was right."

"So why didn't _you_ tell me?!" Tim suddenly barks back. "Why, if you were so against what Bruce was doing by not telling me, did you do the same thing?! What did you both think would happen if I knew about Jason? Did you think that by knowing he was alive, I'd somehow become just like him? Did you both think that I'd somehow take up his mantle if I knew what he'd become? Or were you too _ashamed_ of him and wanted to preserve his memory as the Robin who died in the line of duty and nothing more _so_ badly that since the memory was tainted forever for you two, you thought you'd just keep the charade up for everyone else? For _me_?"

"Tim, it's not—we just…we wanted to protect you. You didn't get it, he was…Jason _isn't_ how he used to be. He was violent, and vengeful. We thought, for now anyway, that he'd have gone after you if he knew about you…"

"Well, that was dumb," Tim huffed. Not that he wasn't sure the thought _hadn't_ crossed Jason's mind before… "He already knew about me. He'd been doing research of his own, you know. All it takes is one look at any headline from the past five years to know Batman found a new Robin."

Dick smiles sadly.

"You're right. We were wrong. I'm sorry."

There's a pregnant silence before Dick perks up, "So how is he?"

"What?"

"Is he ok? Is he eating? You've been seeing him for a few weeks now so…so, is he getting better? Is he getting help?! I've wanted to visit him but I just…Bruce wouldn't let me." Dick scoffs, shaking his head. "I should've just done it anyway. Screw Bruce, right? Jason wasn't _just_ Bruce's Robin…" Dick trails off, mournfully looking towards Arkham.

A knot forms in Tim's throat.

"He's in trouble."

"What?!" Dick snaps.

"It's the Joker."

Dick's face is stone now.

"Leave your bike in the bushes. We'll take mine; it's faster. We're heading back to the mansion, and you're telling me everything."

* * *

Bruce, Dick, Tim and Alfred all sat in a circle in Bruce's study. Alfred had insisted on standing despite Tim's persisting that he sits. He collapsed into a chair as soon as Tim mentioned the Joker, and looked visibly the worse for wear of the four of them. Dick looked enraged.

Bruce's expression hadn't changed since Tim told him he'd been to see Jason.

"I knew sending him there was a bad idea!" Dick cried out as soon as Tim's retelling was finished.

"Crediting yourself with victory doesn't change what's happening, Dick," Bruce shot back. He kept his glare on Tim.

"You shouldn't have been there."

Tim was taken aback.

"What? If I hadn't, we wouldn't have known about the Joker's play! You can be sure Arkham is going to try to cover this up, keep as little outside influence from filtering in-"

"I mean, you shouldn't have been to see him. Ever."

" _Why_? Because you don't want to see him, and because you didn't want anyone else to go see him either? Why are you trying to erase him from your life?!"

"I'm not-!"

"-Do you know how I found out about Jason?! It was _because_ you tried so hard to erase him! Wiping down his room, deleting all reports on 'the Red Hood'…those were greater red flags than if you'd have let it alone! You're trying so hard to hide him away…" Time shook his head, realization dawning, "He was _right_. You see him as your greatest failure…and that bothers you! You can't stand it! That you trained and raised a killer …a _villain_!"

"Tim-"

"-He was right about _everything_! You won't talk about him, you won't say his name—you won't even save him! He's going to die! It's not a matter of if, but _when_. And you want to leave him there—alone! _To die_!"

Tim stood abruptly, making to storm out of the study.

He stopped at the entrance, not glancing back. Niether Dick nor Alfred attempted to stop him.

"You really aren't going to save him. No wonder he's not trying to get better. The only person who knows about him, who would be waiting for him on the outside…wants him dead as much as the Joker does."

Tim sprints from the room, and Bruce is left stunned silently in his study. Alfred cripples his head into his hands. Dick doesn't take his eyes off the floor.

The slam of the entrance door alerts Bruce that Time is gone.

He's lost two Robins now.

* * *

Two days and the kill count keeps rising. Patients and inmates aren't allowed outside their rooms, which have all been securely locked down, without an escort. Everyone has shifts and schedules of when and where they can be, under heavy watch.

But still, the death toll rises.

Twelve murders in two days. Shanking in the shower. Strangling with sheets. One inmate was poisoned. Everyone is paranoid. Whoever sits next to you in the cafeteria could be the Red Hood—or worse, they could think you were. It didn't take long for Black Mask's inside sources to reach him about the Joker's game and the stakes. There already had been an instance of an outsider disguising as a staff member to assassinate someone who an insider had tipped off could possibly be the Red Hood.

Jason stared at his book, set beside him and his lunch tray.

The cafeteria was practically empty, with only the least harmful and best behaved patients allowed to enjoy meals outside of their rooms. Jason somehow fit that bill.

This was all because of him, he mused. These murders, this twisted game of the Joker's? Bringing out the worst in these recovering men and women simply to satisfy his craving for chaos and bribing them with the promise of money and glory. Jason could end it all. He could put a stop to the Joker's game if he just ruined the fun and gave himself up. If he came forward and admitted who he was… He'd be forcing the Joker's hand, and no one else would have to die..

Besides, Jason was supposed to be dead.

Jason glanced at the novel again, remembering how the story ended. The Nazi simply let his lover go, let her pass him and escape the occupied town, and very well damned himself to his superiors. He was a monster in the end, in her eyes, but at least he sacrificed himself, his happiness, to let her get away.

Wasn't Jason a monster, too? One who could let everyone go, let them live, if he just gave in?

Jason set his palms on the table. He had a plan. It wouldn't do just to off himself—he needed to declare who he was, and however he went out afterwards? He wasn't going to put up a fight. He'd be painting a target on his back and a hundred archers would be aiming for him—one was bound to get to him. No sense in struggling…the Joker would just use Jason living as an excuse to off the innocents still.

He had to make it to the com office. He had to broadcast his identity. He had to-

"You're the _Red Hood_!"

Jason was startled, whipping around, only to find the accusation wasn't being made at him.

It was directed at a tall, skinny fellow whom Jason had seen a few times but never spoken to. He always complained loudly about musical therapy and blamed his ex for everything that went wrong in his life—including his abusive father who had died eight years before he'd even met his now ex-fiance. Jason watched as a brawlier man (This one Jason _knew_ the name of—Mark, or Marco, or something like that…he _mostly_ knew the guy's name) stood and approached the scrawny complainer.

"What?! I'm not the Red Hood! Check my file! I was here during that throwdown! The whole of it! I didn't get released til after the Red Hood had gone AWOL! I just got back in here a week ago—I ain't ever seen the Joker in person-!"

"-Shut up! You're the Red Hood, and I'm about to be rich!"

In a split second Jason saw the knife pulled forth from Mario's boot. An outsider somehow smuggled it in for him.

But how'd Raphael manage to get _that_ past security?!

 _Unless the guards were becoming more lax about the whole situation._ They _wanted_ the Red Hood found and dead.

Jason sprung instantly form his spot on the bench, diving towards the defenseless man. He felt a prick at his neck, then the feeling of the blade drawing across his throat as he leapt. He hadn't even hit the floor before blood had already trailed from his artery and he felt himself immediately begin to black out. Guards were rushing forward and Julius Caesar was being reprimanded and tackled. The scrawny guy just kept crying, yelping out profanities in that he'd almost died.

Jason's countdown stopped at 0:07 when he slipped unconscious.

* * *

"Let me through!"

"Kid, you're not authorized to be back there. Police and ward staff personnel only."

"Don't you remember me?! I-I'm the kid who's been visiting him! Please, he's…he's my friend. Just five minutes, I just want to talk to him!"

The guard looks apologetic. He's one of the clean ones. Tim knows; he did a background check on all of them.

The hospital staff give shifty looks towards the guard and kid, standing outside the restricted room. The second guard is clearly unconcerned with whatever the first decides. They've swept the room and there's no way the patient can turn any of those tools against the kid. Plus, he's strapped down. And with an injury like the one he had? It's a wonder he survived.

The first guard sighs.

"Five minutes kid. You know I gotta check you too, though, ok?"

After a quick search in which Tim's pencil was confiscated—he'd forgotten he'd had it on him—Tim entered the small hospital room.

"Well, look at me, Replacement! I finally got out-" Jason coughs. He looks miserable and he's hooked to three different IVs. A bandage on his neck is already seeping through with blood and puss and requires changing soon. The artery cut was shallow but he lost too much blood and was rushed to the hospital. He's not even the first Arkham inmate to be here, nor will he be the last. There's two more patients with guards stationed outside their doors down the hall, and the staff of the hospital is starting to talk. Arkham has kept the Joker's shocking reveal a secret from the media for now, but not for long.

"Hey…how are you?"

This time, when Tim asks the question, Jason answers.

"I'm still alive."

He doesn't sound happy about it.

"B know you're here?"

Tim shakes his head.

"I don't know if he even knows you're here. I haven't spoken to him…"

Jason adjust his head so he's staring up at the ceiling.

Tick.

"I'm going to see him after this. Tell him what happened. Jason, we're going to get you out of here."

Tick.

"We'll come up with a plan and break you out of either here, the hospital, or during the drive back—you're not going to step back into Arkham! I'll make _sure_ of that-"

"Tim."

Tick.

Tim freezes. Jason has never called him by his name…

"Don't."

Tick.

" _What_?"

"Don't tell Bruce about me."

Tim's hairs stand on end. Jason doesn't use Bruce's name ever either. He was always 'B'.

"Don't tell Bruce about me, and don't break me out. Don't try to save me, and don't visit me anymore."

Tick.

"Jason, what're you talking about? It's not safe, we have to get you out of-!"

"No. You don't. And you're not going to. I'm going back to Arkham one last time."

"One last time..?"

Tick.

"I'm going back to Arkham. And I'm going to confess to being the Red Hood."

"You can't! They'll _kill you_ -"

"I know."

Tick.

* * *

So I hope I wrote everyone alright-some characters are difficult to write *cough Joker/Bruce cough* Don't worry-Isabel and Specs aren't making a reappearance; I only mentioned them again this chapter to provide, as Tim put it, a sign that perhaps Jason isn't 100% done with living yet. Cept, then the Joker comes along and starts this game of his-I really wanted to emphasize more how this is a moral dilemma for everyone involved. These inmates want to be the one that kills Red Hood and will just kill and attack everyone since they don't know who he really is. So, to stop this 'game', Jason has to expose himself for others die in his place.

Tim seems a bit rebellious in this chapter, and maybe he and Jason got along too quickly; For dialogue purposes, they had to get along, but I don't want to give off the new52 vibe that these two are best buds. The only reason Jason didn't go after Tim, in this story, is because Tim was off world. Jason did his research, he hated Tim, but they're meeting for the first time face to face when Jason has given up-he doesn't resent anyone and he doesn't care that Bruce replaced him. Hence why he never brought it up to Bruce that he knew about Tim in the first place~

Bruce was hard to write in this chapter...he's a conflicting guy, flipping between Batman who needs to remain the icon to Gotham and who weighs everyone's lives the same, and Bruce, the damaged man who struggles with his sons. Like I said, I wanted to flesh this chapter out a bit more, but also wanted to hurry up and post it for you guys who have been wonderfully patient! The next chapter has more action and violence and hopefully I'll return to more twisted and complex themes and less interviews and debates :p

I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'm forgetting everything I wanted to say about it but any questions or concerns, shoot me a message and I'll answer! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, I promise I'll get on writing the next one!


	6. 0:06

Sorry this took so long to post! This chapter was very difficult to write :/ Particularly in the middle! I hope you enjoy it though~!

* * *

Tim is currently asleep on Dick's couch in Bludhaven, across the bay. Dick rubs at the coffee mug in his hand—a simple black mug with a pug face on it- but it's long since been emptied. He's staring at the kid, thinking how he looks younger than he is, but also notes that even in sleep Tim looks tense. He's bearing so much on his frail shoulders.

Bearing the mistakes of Dick, and of Bruce.

Bearing the fate of Jason.

Tim came to Dick, _not_ Bruce, after his few precious minutes with Jason were up. Tim had disclosed how stunned into silence he'd been when Jason admitted he was going to reveal himself once back at Arkham. It was a declaration of suicide—the moment he outed himself as the Red Hood, assassins from outside and within the walls of Arkham wouldn't rest until they'd claimed his head and collected the reward money from Black Mask, or whichever drug lord scum had offered a bounty for the Red Hood's head.

Dick finally set the mug down, rubbing at his temple. It was well past midnight, but Dick needed to talk to someone, and _this_ particular person would be up.

" _-Oracle, go."_

"Hey, Babs," Dick greets weakly. The line isn't a com link spent for personal calls, but the earpiece was nearer than the phone.

There's silence on the other end for a while and Dick fears she'll hang up on him. Things have been rough recently, and she really isn't even on talking terms with 'Batman' and 'Nightwing', but she still answered the call, even as Oracle, so there's some hope, Dick thinks.

"… _What do you want, Dick?"_

Dick rubs at his temple. There's so much he hasn't caught Barbara up on. These past months have gone by and they have hardly spoken. He's certainly not mentioned Jason to her, which would be where he'd start now, normally, if he wasn't so troubled by everything. He sighs and it takes a while for his voice to gather.

"Babs, I need your help."

" _Dick? Dick, what's wrong?"_

"Jason is back."

* * *

Tim wakes up well past noon. He rubs at his eyes and feels just as tired and drained as he had last night when he'd rode the night trains to reach Dick's apartment. He needed to talk to someone, someone who cared and could make a difference, but Bruce was out of the question. Bruce wouldn't help.

When Tim sits up, he notices Dick sitting in the breakfast nook chair, looking disheveled and as if he hasn't slept all morning. Tim scrambles to his feet, but approaches Dick slowly.

"Dick..?"

"I called Barbara." Dick admits, sitting up straight. His eyes are looking past Tim, past the walls themselves, and he's deep in thought.

"…What'd you tell her?"

Tim wouldn't be surprised if Babs didn't know about Jason, just as Tim hadn't. From what he gathered, only Dick, Bruce and Alfred knew.

"Everything. I told her everything…"

Dick grips a hand around his mouth, and his glazed eyes hesitate before finally meeting Tim's.

He sighs and clasps both hands on his knees.

"I told her about Jason…coming back. And the Red Hood, and…and how we thought he was dead…again. And I told her about how we found him, _again_ , and we tried to help him. And then how we let him go-"

"-Bruce did that. _Bruce_ is the one who cast Jason away, not you."

Dick smiles, weakly, but he might as well have dropped Jason off at Arkham himself. He certainly never visited him afterwards.

"And then I told her about the Joker, and what happened to Jason…and what he told you."

Tim started nodding frantically, "Ok, this is good. Good. Babs knows, so now she can help-"

"-She won't."

* * *

 _"Babs...? Barbara, are you stil there?"_

"This is a sick joke, Dick. Pretty low, even for you-"

 _"-It's not a joke, Barbara. I w-...It's not a joke."_

Babs sets her hands in her lap, away from the keyboard for just a moment. Huntress hasn't checked in yet but she's got another ten minutes before Barbara is supposed to raise the alarm. Barbara glances at the window, as if looking out it she'll see the bumbling face of Jason, dressed in red and gold, waving from the window sill and begging to be let in, _c'mon Babs, it's freezing out here!_

Barbara immediately reaches for her glasses, clearing the fog off them.

"Dick, what's going on?"

Dick tells her everything. At first he's telling her Ra's revived Jason, and she's paralyzed but wants desperately to research if that's possible-can someone gone, someone dead, come back from the Lazarus pit?! And then Dick tells her he became the Red Hood, and suddenly Babs is googling every mention of the word and filling in details with newspaper clippings and blog articles on the mysterious underworld crime boss who rose out of the shadows and disappeared as quickly.

She's already reading the reports of how Joker was busted by Black Mask and then kidnapped by Red Hood when Dick gets around to telling her he was there, the first night the Red Hood-Jason-appeared.

"You saw him?! You knew he was back, all this time?!"

She's livid and Dick quickly tries to amend the situation.

 _"No, not then! I-I didn't...I didn't know until after we thought he died...the second time..."_

"What?!"

Dick hurries to the part where Bruce confronted Jason, and the explosion, and how they thought Jason was gone...again. And then how he resurfaced.

"So, you knew for months...and never told me. Not even the second time?! Did you even think-oh, of course you didn't. You didn't think about whether I'd have wanted to see Jason, to talk to him-after all this time, and he was _alive_?!"

 _"Babs, he wasn't...he isn't like how you remember him. He's not...he wasn't Jason anymore..."_

Barbara glances at her empty desk. There are no framed pictures here, where she works, but back home, by her bed, sits a non-incriminating photo of herself and two black haired youths. One is Dick, with an arm around her waist sitting beside her on a beach boardwalk wall when the sky is cloudy but not so dark. And in front of them, jumping with a smile that never once screamed 'murderer' to Barbara, is Jason. Was Jason.

He'd asked Babs out for the afternoon, but Dick tagged along. Jason hadn't been happy about that, but just before that picture was taken they'd found an antique store with some old tattered books that had all seemed to have been through one storm or another, logged with water damage. Jason had insisted something inside might catch Babs' attention, though all three of them knew it was Jason who wanted desperately to go inside.

He'd bought four books, one of which he swore he could repair despite the damage. That was the Jason Babs remembered, even when three years later Jason had recoiled at the memory and exclaimed he'd thrown the books form that day away.

Babs had found the books under his bed a week after the funeral when Dick had asked Barbara, as a personal favor, to stop by to check in on Alfred. Dick wasn't even on the planet when Jason died, and had missed the funeral. The books had been, as promised, restored and sat on Barbara's bookshelf opposite in her room to the picture.

"So...who was he then?"

Dick doesn't respond immediately.

 _"Someone..._ something _, that shouldn't have ever risen."_

* * *

"…what?"

"Tim….the two of us? Alone, in Arkham…it's as much a suicide mission as _Jason's_ is."

"But…but we can't leave him alone! Dick, he is going to _die_." Tim's blood was boiling. How could Barbara refuse to help them? _To help Jason?!_

"She won't help the two of us…but…"

"-She'll help the _three_ of us."

Tim whipped his head around. Standing in the faint shadows of the kitchen stood Bruce, as comfortably as if he'd been there the whole time.

"You called _him_?!" Tim snapped at Dick.

" _No_ , I came here looking for you. You weren't at your home and Alfred said you hadn't returned to the manor. I was worried about you Tim…"

"Worried I'd do something _stupid_ like visit Jason? Well I did. Did Dick tell you? How he's going to _kill_ himself?"

Bruce didn't flinch, or frown. He just stared at Tim. Dick's eyes fell to the floor.

"Jason isn't going to die."

"And how can _you_ make sure of that?"

"Because, with Barbara's help…we're going to break him out of Arkham. Tonight."

* * *

Jason grips at his ribs but ignores the guard's advice he ' _take it easy and go to his room'_. He's thought about it the entire armored-car ride home. Hell, he's been practicing his speech since he woke in that hospital room, still alive with a wound at his throat. He could recite it in his sleep, which frightened him slightly that he may have already done so when the nurses had him pumped full of morphine.

He walks right past his room, beyond the hallway, and heads straight for the cafeteria. It's past lunch but the sun is high; most guards and inmates are outside enjoying what little sunlight is out today.

But not the one Jason was looking for.

He'd be right where Jason needed him to be.

Stuffing his face with the cafeteria slop was Marcus (Jason finally remembered his name correctly), surrounded by two goons of his which... _Damnit_ , Jason wasn't expected to know everyone's name.

 _Moose and Cow_ , Jason decided.

"Oi, Marcus!"

The brawly man looked up from his 'meal', his jaw slacked with food.

Marcus swallowed the mouthful, smiling as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"Just the meat bag I was looking for. 'Eard you hadn't died on the ride over. Shame."

Jason dug his heels into the concrete of the floor.

"Yeah, yeah, I don't give a damn about whether you signed my get well card or not, scumbag. I'm here to tell you-"

"-Oi, you're not here for _revenge_ are you?"

Jason's brow cocked. " _What_?"

"I thought you'd think your heroics were in vain, since I killed that little friend of yours while you were away."

Jason's eyes widened.

"B-but…You were wrong! He _wasn't_ the Red Hood! I-"

"-don't care." Marcus shrugged. "I don't care who the Red Hood is. None of us do. Ain't that right _boys_?!"

Moose chuckled and Cow grinned despite a mouthful of slop.

"See, I probably wouldn't even kill 'em if I did meet him—I'd thank him!"

Jason's fists clenched.

"What the hell?"

"Thanks to the Joker, and this game of his, we _run_ Arkham. The guards are checking out early, turning their heads and keeping quiet—they want this bloodbath as much as we inmates do! They want the herds thinned. _Sure_ , maybe after the crowds been cut a lil' we'll all find some scapegoat, call him the Red Hat, or whatever, and claim Black Mask's reward, but for now? We're gonna ride the coattails of this chaos as long as it'll-"

Marcus' jaw audibly breaks when Jason's foot slams into it. Cow and Moose barely react before Jason grabs a metal tray and slams it hard on Cow's head, sending him over the bench. With one hand Jason grips Moose's trachea and tosses him by it. Moose coughs and trips, clinging at his throat. Marcus stands but Jason uses the table to gain momentum, jumping and landing a punch to Marcus' temple. He falls down, and stays down.

Moose is still rubbing his throat, and Cow is struggling to stand, a hand to his head. Jason's eyes are red.

A couple guards are on the top levels, watching everything go down. But, they do nothing.

Jason spits near Marcus at his feet and turns to walk away.

Revealing his identity means nothing. Coming out as the Red Hood? No one will believe him. No one wants to. The guards, the inmates, hell Gotham itself, he bets, all want the criminals to kill each other, and this is an excuse to let it happen. It wouldn't stop with Jason's death, or his confession.

It'd stop with the Joker's death.

Tonight.

* * *

Jason's first order of business was to return to his room. He'd need supplies for tonight.

His room was empty, save for an extra pair of paper-thin sweats, a clock on the wall, his mattress and sheets, and his book.

He took a moment to admire his companion from these past few months, wondering back to the two romantic leads. How the girl tried so hard to believe the man wasn't a monster, and that he could change and they could be happy despite the chaos around them.

It was idiotic to think that a monster could become a man; especially when the world didn't want him to.

And it was just a book.

It wasn't _real_.

Jason eyed the clock provided on his wall- two hours until dinner, then another two for the night shift. Jason would strike closer to ten, when everyone was settled and sleeping and off their guard. He went to work tearing strips of the sheets apart, twisting and tightening the straps. He punched the clock, shattering the glass. He fastened shards at his knuckles with some of the strips of fabric, and took the clock hands as small daggers, sharpening them with each other until the points could prick his finger at the slightest touch.

He hid the clock hands in his slippers and found a crayon under his bed that he stuffed in his pocket. He tied the glass shards around his waist, under his shirt, and glanced at the book for another moment before stashing it in his pants as well.

Arkham's first level was littered with storage rooms and activity rooms—empty meeting rooms and the chambers of lesser criminals, which luckily enough Jason was considered. The Cafeteria was at the far south end of the main building, while two halls branched off on either side of the courtyard and were filled with more rooms and counselors offices. The next floor below was another set of storage rooms and labs; the locker room for guards as well as a rec room for the staff. And then the third level, and subsequent basements beyond that, held Gotham's criminal royalty.

Hell's basement.

And he was after Satan.

* * *

Jason's next stop was the front office. He stared at the nurse working the computer tonight—Lucy, a friend of Isabel's. Thinking of Isabel, he recalled how much faith she'd had in him. She hadn't known who he truly was, and not knowing was the reason she sympathized with him, he reasoned. She wouldn't have liked nor approved of him had she known. Still, staring at the nurse… No one would listen to him, but he had to try, he thought.

He grabbed the crayon and pulled forth his book, scribbling on a page before ripping it out. He walked by the door and slipped the paper underneath, mindful of any passing staff or inmates. He hoped this would work, rather than tip him off.

He doesn't stop and wait to see what Lucy decides, or wait around for when she'll even turn and notice the warning. He's already making his way three halls down.

* * *

Specs' old roommate had been Angelo. Angelo's lawyer had been great at convincing the jury he wasn't sound of mind, but Angelo was among the smartest and well-resourced of the upper level criminals. He had a number of connections to the outside world and always had a shiv or bomb or two for sale. Jason didn't have cigarettes to trade today, but he figured even without an appointment he could get in.

Outside of Angelo's cell were two 'buddies' of his, watching guard. The hall was otherwise empty.

Jason approached them without slowing. One guard stepped forward, reaching an arm out at Jason. Jason wound up a punch and landed it in the first man's gut. The second stepped forward, throwing his own fist into Jason's stomach.

He recoiled his hand with a yelp as glass shards met his fist. Some of the shards lodged into Jason as well, causing his skin to prick and bleed onto his sweats, turning the plum purple to a deep red, but Jason ignored the stinging pain. He jumped to deliver a kick to the second inmate's head, sending him to the floor.

Jason gripped the first man's arm, holding him in place as he landed one, two, five more punches to the face of him before kicking out his feet from under him.

Angelo made the mistake of poking his head out, only to shout and retreat back into his cell.

The second man gripped Jason's head from behind; his bloodstained hand covering the top of Jason's head as his hand was so large. Jason reached above him, gripping the attacker's arm and flipping him over his back. He straddled the man, punching him relentlessly until blood splattered back onto his own face. He'd broken the man's nose in, and possibly had just killed him, but Jason didn't give a damn. No one was getting in his way anymore.

He now was coated in blood, soaked in the sticky syrup of blood that dripped like molasses from his chin. He slipped one of the clock hands from his shoe, swiping behind him just as the other inmate was going for him. He sliced an artery in the man's arm. He squealed as further blood splattered everywhere. Jason grabbed his second clock hand from his slipper and stepped towards Angelo's cell.

Angelo was huddled in a corner, holding a crafted shiv at Jason with shaking hands.

Jason smiled, catching his breath. He was dripping in blood and sweat and had shards of glass poking through his shirt. He picked one out, tossing it aside.

"Shoulda warned your guy about that, I guess…" he mused. His attention returned to Angelo.

"Sorry for the short notice, but I need to trade. And I say _trade_ , but…I actually don't have anything to offer. Except your life, if that means anything to you."

* * *

The next stop was on the second basement- the Confiscation Room.

GCPD kept most of the inmates' confiscated weapons and memorabilia, but not all could be kept in some weapons treasury at a police station. Some was dismantled, some was sent to other cities, and some ended up in a storage unit room on the bottom floor of Arkham.

Jason dodged around two corners before reaching the staff stairwell. The code was 4329, a secret Specs had revealed to Jason. Isabel had overheard them and patronized Specs for divulging in such gossip, but also hadn't denied that that was the code. Jason suspected a part of her maybe wanted him to know.

He punched in the code-

-4 years as Robin.

Beep.

-3 of them in that mansion; Bruce, Alfred and Himself.

Beep.

-2 crime fighting partners.

Beep.

-9 seconds left in the countdown.

The light flashed green and Jason slipped through the door.

* * *

The halls on this level were fairly empty. The room he wanted was among the first doors to his left.

Everything was boxed and labeled and easy to maneuver through. He found Firefly's stash easy enough.

The wiring had been tampered with, but pulling forth the clock hands, Jason knew in four hours he could have these flash bombs low-grade explosives, albeit low of fuel and portable as they were, up and running. Nothing else in the room much interested him; Killer Croc's back-up collars, or Bane's anti-venom chemicals that fought the hostility of venom but kept him alive and drugged all the same. Not even Copperhead's poison was stored here, and anything of the Joker's was burned the moment he was captive. He took his supplies and hid in a corner.

Start the countdown.

234 minutes, he supposed.

* * *

"Oracle, what's the situation?"

" _Four Guards at the west entrance…I thought you broke in here before? Whenever you…_ dropped _Jason off."_

"That was the front door. We need to get further into the infrastructure of the asylum."

" _The codes not up to standards. Bruce Wayne should really bring that up at the next benefactor's meeting. Security is…slack…"_ Babs mumbled through the coms.

"I'll say-I hacked it from the school's computers…" Tim trailed off, noticing Bruce's disdainful scowl.

"Babs? Security is still-"

The red light flashed green.

"-on…"

" _You were saying, Dick?"_

In the cover of the night, the trio had slipped through the Arkham yard and past the iron gate. Dick stood by the doors, relaying details of security systems and punching in codes for Oracle. Bruce had the updated map details on his wrist, also speaking to Alfred on a private com in hushed tones Tim couldn't pick up on. Tim himself kept a look out for the night guard, who seemed short of staff tonight.

Another light switched positive as the three slipped through the doors inside the asylum.

The front desk was abandoned. No guards roamed the halls and no nurse's name marked the late shift clipboard that Tim checked.

"Something's not right…"

"It's as if everyone knew we were coming tonight," Dick frowned.

"Not us." Bruce proclaimed from beside a computer. The others joined him.

A note lay across the keyboard. Scribbled marker over a torn book page reading ' _Leave Early. Attack Tonight'_.

"Someone warned the staff to stay away. Why give any warning..? Did they know about us coming?"

Bruce continued shaking his head.

"It's not _us_ they were warning about."

" _Dick! Bruce?! There's a spike in temp-"_

BOOM.

From somewhere levels below them, a thunderous boom shook the building. Dick and Tim looked at each other, but the younger was already inhaling sharply and had started sprinting down the hall.

"Tim, wait-!"

Bruce gripped Dick's arm.

"We need to head to the basement levels."

"What?! But, Tim-"

"-Is heading towards where Jason's room is. We need to head to where _Jason_ is."

"Which is..?"

"Where the Joker is."

* * *

Tim ignored his senses telling him the explosion was in the opposite direction. He wanted desperately to find Jason, in his room with his hands crossed behind his back, trying to sleep. Jason had mentioned once what room number he was—a slip up at the time—but Tim hadn't even ade it to that hall before he spotted two thugs, bruised and bloodied, in a hall. Tim approached them slowly, peering into the room they'd collapsed outside of.

A man with an eye so bruised it was swollen shut groaned from within. Tim rushed to his side, gently nudging the man. The man jerked awake, terrified to see the Boy Wonder in front of him.

"Please, _please_! I had no choice, he made me supply him!"

"What? _Who_?! Who did this to you?!"

"It's him, I swear it! I swear, he's the Red Hood! H-he killed them, didn't he?! Ryan and Pablo?!"

Tim bit his lip. He hadn't checked on the state of the men outside.

The inmate shuddered.

" _Wait_ , how do you know he was the Red Hood?"

There's a chance, Tim thought. There's a chance it wasn't Jason. Jason could still be in his room-

"H-he attacked and…th-the way he struck…That's _not normal_! He's trained, he's a damn _demon_ , it's _magic_! I-I don't know, _man_! He…He just walked up, and when I heard Ryan _scream_ , I l-looked out and…and he was red! _Covered_ , he was red! It w-was their _blood_! He was cloaked in it...h-hooded! He's the Red Hood!"

Tim's heart sank. This man wasn't confirming it was Jason, but…

"It was that John Doe! I-I knew him! Yeah, man, he was always h-hanging out w-with Specs! H-he was the Red Hood, all this time…"

Tim lowered his head.

"What did you give him? What did he take?"

"E-everything! The lighters, the files, the matches and the pliers—e-even the crowbar!"

"Where did he go?"

* * *

Tick.

A thug ran at Jason, but he dodged, tripped, and slammed his armed fists down on the back on him. One shard stuck in the man's neck. Jason's other arm held a crowbar in a knife grip. On his shoulder were slung three grenades courtesy of Firefly. He sported a belt, thanks to Angelo (Real leather) which had matches, a file, two more shivs and a lighter strapped to it. A baton he'd slipped from the guard's locker room also hung at his waist. What little else he'd gathered was the larger bomb he'd set off at the entrance to the lower cells, a smoke bomb, and a bulletproof vest also courtesy of the guard's room. Firefly's box had been a goldmine of small explosives, however harmless they were, and Angelo has spotted him with enough smaller trinkets to kick up the power of the bombs.

He continued forward as if no one had tried to intercept him. Several inmates were clambering at their cell doors, shouting to be released. The explosion had loosened some locks, but not all. At the end of the hall stood the lone, bolted door to the bottom most basement cell and only a hallway stood in Jason's way.

"Jason!"

Jason sighed.

A hallway and an annoying, overgrown man in a bat costume.

"Well, Batman, you finally came! Did my invitation get lost in the mail?"

* * *

"Jason, what are you _doing_?!"

Dick looked desperate and exasperated. His batons were raised but only for show. A buzzing and tiny voice made its way to Jason's ears.

"Is that… _her_ , on the other line?"

"She wants you to come home, Jason…" Dick offered, his voice breaking as he watched Jason stare contemptibly at the Dynamic Duo. Bruce had said nothing still.

Jason wondered how long ago...she...had learned about him. Had Bruce told her when he told Dick? After Jason was already presumed dead...again. Or did Barbara find out on her own, weeks later, like Tim? Even now, did she know the whole truth? Did she know this reincarnation of the Robin she once knew was now a murdering psychopath who just wanted to die?

"You know, I may seem ungrateful…but, _really_ , I'm _glad_ you made it to this party." Jason threw his arms up, riling the inmates in their cells up. He was dressed in nothing more than the paper thin garbs of the asylum and a bulletproof vest. His hair was clean shaven for the first time in months (a gift from the nurses at the hospital) but the white streak was wider, thicker than ever before. Dried blood was caked over him, under the vest, and he looked painted red. His eyes were wild, with dark circles around them. He was pale, and drained of blood, but he hadn't looked as alive in months.

"Unfortunately, the entertainment for the party never showed up, and I'm about to get my money's back. But, I'd be a terrible host if I didn't offer some distraction in my place. How's…Crane, for a change?!"

Jason lifted the crowbar, slamming it down on the cell lock of the nearest cell door. From the broken cell came forth a skulking figure; Scarecrow.

"Batma _aan_ …."

Jason turned tail and sprinted down the hall. Dick was hot on his trail.

"Jason!"

"Dick, wait!"

Bruce jumped, pushing Dick as Scarecrow lashed out.

"It is rude to leave a guest without a word. I'm afraid…this can't go unpunished!"

Dick gripped at his arm, scowling. His eyes dodged between Crane and Jason.

"Get out of the way, Crane!"

Bruce took a fighting stance.

"We don't have _time_ for this. Nightwing, let's hurry and finish this!"

Nightwing nodded, slinging his arm to his side. From the corner of his eye, Dick watched as Jason let another small grenade go off, breaking the door at the end of the hall from its hinges. He slipped into the darkness and was gone.

Off to confront the Joker.

* * *

Jason hears the low chuckling as he approaches the cell in the dark.

"Someone let the mutt out. I warned them to _put you down,_ didn't I~? Hehehe… _So_ , baby bird has returned to the nest…haha…what do I owe the pleasure for? _Hmm_? Come to _thank_ me for the little game?! Oh, I _know_ ~! It's the Bat, isn't it?! He's _here_! And you're afraid he'll tell you ' _no_ ' to killing the big, bad ol' Joker! Well, better _hurry_! I can almost _hear_ his wigs fluttering after you! Hahaha!"

Jason grit his teeth, lifting the crowbar.

"All this time, and I could've escaped. Or, I could've come down here, anytime I wanted, and killed you. Guess I just liked being on the first floor too much. But nap time's over, and I'm here to finish what I should've done months ago. Batman isn't going to save you. And that damn game of yours? It ends _tonight_."

The Joker's face appeared in the celled window of his room.

"Oh~! You _do_ look different without the helmet and the mask, I must say. But you look a little _funny_ …discolored. Are you _sick_?"

Jason bit a pin from a grenade, smiling at the Joker, who in turn let his own smile falter slightly.

"You could say that."

* * *

Tim follows the dried trail of blood. He trips going over a corner. His face hits the floor hard, but despite the stinging he lifts himself up, eyeing what tripped him.

It's a book, tattered and missing chunks of pages. Tim, despite his hurry, reaches for the book, flipping through the remaining pages. A crayon drops from a page it had been bookmarked on, and Tim opens the page in the moonlight, reading the passage underlined in wax.

' _The town echoed the shots, the screaming have died down. Despite sitting in her back parlor room, she still could hear the dying screams of the old man only to have them abruptly ended by the single shot of a rifle. She knew it was he who had pulled the trigger; she knew it had been him. The execution had been delivered by his hands. The same hands that had held her just a night before. The same hands that had gently smoothed the ruffles in her skirt and had poured tea for her when the house had gone quiet and still. She knew it was him, but she no longer knew who he was. He wasn't the same man as the night before. But he'd never changed, either. He had always, as long as she'd known him and from the moment she met him, been a monster.'_

Tim clipped the book to his utility belt. He'd hand it back to Jason, whenever they found him and brought him home.

Whenever they saved him…

Stopped him.

* * *

Tick.

The Joker was flung across the cell. For as scrawny as he was, one hit from the crowbar could send him like a rag doll into the wall.

Tick.

The sound of the crowbar hitting flesh and bone resounded to Jason as the ticking of a countdown rather than the mashing of steel and marrow. Jason took two wide striding steps to reach the Joker. Before the pale creep could lift his chin from the floor, Jason sent a winded blow to his back.

Tick.

"I…I hope…th-this is everything y-you dreamed…heh….it'd be, B-bird-boy…" The Joker wheezed, trying to laugh but instead coughing.

"-B-because…whether you k-kill me now…or not…the k-k-killing doesn't…hehe…end here…Ol' Bl-Blackie is going to s-send…send his goons til this whole place is raised to the ground! Hahahaha!"

Jason raised the bar but held it in the air.

 _Fuck_.

"Shut up, clown! I don't give a damn about this place, or your stupid game! I just want to see you get what you deserve—a one way ticket to hell!"

Tick.

"Oh-hohoho…B-but, Jason! D-don't you know? You do care about wh-what happens here in home-sweet-homicide-ville! B-because you're just like him…you care, and you can pretend a-all you want that you don't…hehe…but you can't pull a fast one over Uncle Joker…hehehahahaha!"

Jason raises the crowbar once again, grimaces, and drops the metal to the floor.

The damn clown is right.

"Wh-what now, Jason my boy? You going to…to go back to your cell like a _good_ boy? Finish the job here? Let Bats take you to his secret cave and change your ways-"

Jason lifts the Joker by his orange shirt collar.

"You keep talking and I don't know what the hell makes you think I give a damn what you're saying." Jason snarls, his eyes a brighter green in contrast with the dark red blood that has dried into a mask over his face. "You may not be dead _yet_ , but that's only because there's someone higher on the list than you now…" Jason frowns, as if admitting as much out loud sickens him, before dropping Joker to the ground. He grabs at his discarded stash of explosives—only three left. Two to break the wall, and one more for a distraction, he thinks to himself.

He looks back at the Joker.

"Don't get me wrong. I want you dead the most. You're just not worth killing and getting caught for right now."

Sure enough, he can here Bruce and Dick shouting and running from down the hall. They've disposed of Crane quicker than he hoped.

Jason lights one of the bombs, holding it just in time to see Dick and Bruce round the corner.

"Change of plans."

He tosses the bomb at the two of them, causing them both to dive away. The distraction is enough for Jason to break past them, getting caught slightly in the blast to propel him further. The feeling of heat and flame at his back reminds him of the timer buzzing in his head, but he suppresses the memory.

Killing the Joker-this time-would have accomplished nothing. Joker was right—the game would continue until everyone was dead in Arkham, and even beyond.

The Red Hood needed to make an appearance, and he needed to pull attention away from Arkham. He needed to show that he was out. He needed to draw the attention of the one person who truly did control whether this game continued or not.

Black Mask.

Jason was going to kill Black Mask.

* * *

In the hall, It's a clear sprint as what few guards are around are struggling to reign in the straggling inmates who had gotten loose.

"Jason!"

Jason skids to a stop at the sound of his name.

Replacement.

"Don't have time for you now, Replacement! Check on the geezers, would you?"

"Did you kill them?!"

Jason hesitates. He almost quips 'Don't you know me better-' but stops because Tim doesn't. No one knows Jason anymore. Not himself, certainly.

Maybe he did kill them, though he doubts one flash bomb was enough to smoke out Bruce.

"Get them out of here, before the rest of the fuzz show up." Jason advises, the laughter gone in his voice.

"Jason, _please_ , stop! Come back with us! We-they-made a mistake leaving you here! It' not to late, I _swear_ it isn't-"

"-Robin," Jason calls, and Tim stops talking because in a way, this is finally the recognition he's always wanted from his predecessor. This is the mantle finally being passed to him, rightfully, in some twisted turn of events.

"Go to Batman and Nightwing. Take them home. And then forget about me. Tell Oracle to, too. I'm not Robin or Jason or John Doe anymore. When Ra's brought me back, he brought back only the part of me that needs and wants death. Whether it's my own, or others'. And I've done my share of killing and destruction, but it ends with me, and with _him_. No one else is dying because of me. I really hope we don't see each other again...Because next time, all my ties to you and Batman will be gone. And I will kill you."

Tim is stunned and tries to hold the book from his belt up, but Jason is already sprinting towards the front of the asylum. Tim hesitates, but knows he can't chase after Jason. He needs to check in on Bruce and Dick. He grips the book harder, and sprints down towards the basement.

He ponders what Jason meant. Didn't he kill the Joker, or try to? Why did he say it ended with 'me and him'. Did he fail in killing the Joker, and was going to return again? Or was there someone else?

And why were they now Jason's enemies...He said he'd kill them if hey got in his way...Who was Jason trying to save? The inmates, who were being killed because no one knew who the 'Red Hood' really was? Why didn't Jason reveal his identity?! What happened that changed him...

When Tim found Bruce, he was pushing a chunk of wall off him. Dick was knocked out, and the Joker was cackling, bruised and bleeding, with his leg under the fallen cell door.

"Br-Batman, He...He got away."

Bruce grunted, lifting himself up.

"Grab Dick. We're leaving."

* * *

"He's lost _because_ of you!"

"You aren't thinking _rationally_ , Dick! You can't blame me for everything that happens to Jason…I know what's my fault, but _I_ didn't decide his every move for him! He chose to become the Red Hood-"

"-He was driven to that choice after he came back to life!"

"He didn't have to-!"

"-After you let him _die_!"

The air freezes over and for a moment it's too thick for either of them to breathe in it.

Back in the Bat-cave, Bruce has discarded his cowl. Dick still holds his batons and scratches at his arm. Tim has already run upstairs to alert Alfred of their return, as well as deliver the news that Jason got away. It was nearly dawn by now, and all three were exhausted.

Bruce stared at Dick, noticing the pent up anger finally overflowing from his first ward.

"So…is that what this is all about? You keep _blaming_ and _blaming_ me for everything that happens, for everything that goes wrong, to Jason…because you think I _let_ him _die_?"

Dick grips his head in his hands.

"I blame you because…because I don't want to blame myself. Because I let him die, too."

Bruce's shoulders sink.

"None of this…none of what has happened to Jason, was ever your fault. He died because of me. However far back you trace his death to, whether it was me letting him out of my sight or taking him in as Robin…it was my fault."

"I wasn't there for him either. Not then, not now. I couldn't protect him from the Joker…and it happened again." Dick kicks the counter closest to him, pauses, then slams his palms down on the counter top.

"He's loose because of the Joker! _Why_ -?"

Dick hesitates but Bruce knows exactly what thought had crossed his mind, no matter how hysterical he was for that split second.

"Why is the Joker still alive? After what he did… _has_ done…to Jason? Why haven't I just killed him. Just him."

Dick shakes his head.

"No, Bruce. I _know_ why. I know why the Joker is still alive. What I don't know is…is why _Jason_ is."

Bruce's eyes widen.

" _What_?"

"Why _is_ Jason alive? How'd he come back? Why is he still alive?"

"Dick." Bruce warns.

Dick suddenly turns around.

"Jason wanted to die. He still does. Why are we keeping him alive?! Why haven't we let him die, like he wants? Why are we forcing him to continuously live through the Joker's torture and games?! Why haven't you let Jason _go_? You said you don't know how to fix him, how you can, but this is it, isn't it? You have to kill Jason!"

Bruce, horrified, steps back but Dick is suddenly at his chest gripping his shirt with both fists, pleading.

"Kill Jason! Please, Bruce, _please_ , let him die! Kill him! Let Jason die!"

Dick is hysterical and there's fear in his eyes. They widen and it's unnatural. Dick is shaking.

Bruce recognizes it all too late and suddenly Dick is gripping Bruce's throat.

"Jason needs to die! I have to kill him! He _wants_ this! You want this, Jason, you have to die! I'll kill you Jason, please! Please, let me help you—let me kill you!"

Dick's hysterical grip is tight and Bruce struggles to loosen it. He's clawing at Dick's hands but can't pry loose.

Tim bursts in just in time.

"Bruce? Dick?!"

"Scare… _Cr-crow_ …"

Tim understands and immediately pulls forth his bow staff.

"Sorry about this, Dick!"

One good leap and thwack and Dick is down. His fingers twitch then go still and Bruce rubs at his throat.

"What happened..?" Tim asks, disturbed by what he just did.

"Dick…" Bruce still grips at his sore neck, "Dick got infected with Scarecrow's fear gas…I…I don't know when, but it was slow acting. Sometime between the Asylum and here…"

Tim is still starring at Dick.

"What do you think he saw?"

Bruce scowls.

"I know exactly what he saw."

"Huh?" Tim snaps his head up at Bruce.

"He saw Jason."

Tim doesn't respond, but his face reads horror.

"He saw what Jason has become, what's happened to him…and it scares him. It terrifies Dick. That I…that _we_ , let all this happen to him. Jason's death, his revival, his becoming of the Red Hood; him nearly dying, him going to Arkham— _this_." Bruce throws his hands up defeated. "Dick is scared that this is all Jason will ever know. Jason already died once after too short a life of nothing but _anger_ and fighting and _fear_. Now he has a second chance and it's worse than the first time around. Dick is afraid _for_ Jason, not of him."

This doesn't comfort Tim all that much, so he returns to starring at the unconscious Dick.

"Will he be ok?"

"I'll have Alfred inject him with an antidote."

"What about you?"

" _We're_ going to find Jason."

Bruce rubs at his throat and starts to walk on, but Tim calls after him.

"Bruce, I...I ran into Jason, on his way out. I let him get away, and-"

"-It's alright, Tim. I forgive you..."

Tim let his shoulders relax-slightly.

"I..Thank...But, Bruce, he said...He's after someone else now, not the Joker. He's out there, and he's trying to kill someone and he also...he also said he'd kill us, if we got in his way."

Bruce doesn't respond. He continues to walk off, leaving Tim alone with an unconscious Dick.

* * *

In her apartment, Barbara Gordon lifts the framed picture from her night stand. She wheels her chair towards the window, what little light seeps through, and eyes the picture in the light.

For the life of her, she can't find those books she took from Jason's room. She has nothing, she found, of Jason's in her room. She's too careful to keep any Batgirl memorabilia in her room so casually. She only had the books, and this picture. She looks at Dick's face, annoyed and grimacing, and hers, grinning with irritation at how pouting Dick had been acting, and Jason. Jason and his smile of pure joy from spending an afternoon with her, and Dick, and his green eyes wide and alive and glinting with specs of gold in reflection of the bay's waves.

She wonders if his eyes look the same now, or if they've glossed over. She recalls hearing his voice through the cons. He'd sounded so much older and grim; so tired and gruff. Tim told her he got away, and then apologized and replied he had to cut the line and help Dick back to the cave. No one had contacted her yet. No one had told her what had happened-to any of them.

She stared at the photo.

 _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde._

That had been the book with so much water damage.

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm so sorry this chapter took FOREVER to write. Honestly the hardest part was writing all the preparation for Jason breaking into the Joker's cell, and then out of Arkham. It was a nightmare to concoct believable situations and supplies and even now I'm not happy with it but I just want to submit this chapter b/c we're finally out of Arkham and I want to return to the character study/mentality rather than action scenes which I'm terrible at.

I really wanted this chapter to show a breath of life back in Jason, now that he has a purpose; It's suppose to mirror Ra's' words to Bruce about Jason's life, b/c it's not balanced and he's only truly alive when he has some twisted purpose, such as killing the Joker, or now Black Mask. I also wanted to emphasize that Jason wanted nothing more than to die, and still does, but now he kinda wants to leave this earth not in complete shambles-he wants this Joker's 'game' to end so then he can die, so at first he thinks revealing himself in Arkham will end it and then he can die. But then it's apparent no one is really all that interested who really even is the Red Hood, so he decides well I'll kill the Joker-cept the Joker then points out, kill me and no one has any vilification of the Red Hood's identity, and the real person keeping this game going is Black Mask. So Jason is just working his way up the food chain to see who is going to end this game so he can essentially die in peace. And Dick is hinted to having been scratched and affected by Scarecrow's fear toxin, and the fear he comes to realize is going to be a key factor in later chapters~

And Barbara is introduced in this chapter cause she never has a huge role in this story but I still wanted to implement her and I like her position of knowing nothing, being rushed to catch up, but still kept kinda in the dark-they're really only keeping her in the loop when they need her and it's not like she's forgiven them from before (I believe in the comics she leaves working as Oracle b/c of Stephanie Brown's 'death', right before 'Under the Red Hood', though I could be wrong...But I kept with that idea that she wasn't on good terms with them to explain her absence from the Red Hood ordeal) so she's going to chew them out and have this building tension...

The Dick-Fear-Toxin scene was written forever ago. The beginning was back in the spring and the action sequences and everything else was written about an hour ago. It's pretty apparent. I'm so sorry.

So, everyone is just shifting their goal to stopping someone else and no one is on one same page-everyone has their own idea of what's the right thing to do and how it should be done and that's a conflict that'll tear mostly everyone apart in the coming chapters~ I hope you slightly enjoyed this chapter! Sorry it took so long, it just was ridiculously hard to write Jason's portrayal of escaping Arkham! The next chapter though will be out sooner b/c it's more fun (to write-it's prlly darker or just as dark in tone) and will be told a lot from Dick and Jason's POVs! So, see you soon hopefully!


	7. 0:07

So this chapter took a little less time to write than the last one~ I'm happier with this one, but I still feel like I could do better~! This chapter answers some questions that the characters had, and sets up a few things~ But, the conclusion is coming in fast and I can't wait to wrap this story up!

There's not too much cursing in this chapter honestly...I must be losing my touch..?

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Dick sits in his room, his hands on his knees. He's reliving his fight with Bruce. Flecks of gold still twinkle in the corner of his eyes, hazy still from the fear toxins' slow build in his blood. That's twice now he's engaged physically in a fight with Bruce in the past few months. He remembers everything that happened, and the images of Bruce and Jason and the thoughts sluggishly rolling in his head of how Jason wants to die. He wants to be dead, he _needs to be dead_ —

The door creaks open and a knock follows, and Tim's head pokes in.

"Hey."

Dick wipes at his tears, throwing up a smile neither boy believes. "Hey, Tim."

"You…sleep ok?"

Dick nods briefly, then shrugs. There's no point lying.

"I don't feel like I'm under Crane's fear-toxin anymore." _Mostly_ , he adds to himself.

Tim half-smiles, sitting in a chair across from Dick.

"Good."

The two are silent for a minute or so before Tim looks around, finally sighing.

"I really hate how clean these rooms are…You think Alfred could just, I don't know… _skip_ cleaning for an hour?"

Dick blurts out a sharp bark of laughter, gripping at his forehead briefly before shaking his head.

"When I stayed here, Alfred must've _hated_ me…My room was always a mess. Clothes everywhere, magazines…You'd think…" Dick hesitates, then continues, "You'd think it was _Jason_ who was the slob, but…I visited once—his room was _pristine_." Dick doesn't raise his head, but he does raise a hand, symbolling with his fingers, "Everything was clean and organized. Just…books, everywhere."

Dick shakes his head. Tim probably _didn't_ know. It's not like anyone ever talked about Jason.

 _Before now_ , that is.

Tim looks to the floor.

"If I'd known that, I might not have suspected anything in the first place…what, with how clean his room was when I returned…" Tim scrunches his brow in thought. "What would you all have done if I'd come home, and Jason was still here?"

Dick shrugged.

"We might've told you, but not Jason. We weren't sure he knew about you and…we didn't want to put him through anything else…" Dick trails off.

Tim nods slowly, trying to imagine himself tip-toeing around the mansion, acting like a ghost in the manor as he tried to sneak looks at the guest who supposedly didn't know of his existence. He wondered if they'd been introduced, weeks later, by Bruce and Dick and if maybe Jason had been more accommodating; hell, he just tried to imagine meeting Jason for the first time not behind a glass panel in a prison.

Alfred opens the door wider, stepping inside.

"Master Bruce would like to see you both, if you're feeling up to it Master Richard. He thinks he's…found something."

"He's found Jason?!" Tim and Dick both jump up.

"It's not for me to say."

* * *

"Where is he?" Tim demands, just upon entering the Bat-cave. Dick follows him quietly from behind. His vision still dances with specs of light.

Bruce is facing the computer, not bothering to turn around.

"I have facial recognition looking for him. A few cameras I've tapped into for live feed around areas I think he'll appear. I'm also running the satellites now to an algorithm to track where his last seen locations to lead us to him if he stays on a course. For now, no, I don't know where Jason is. But," Bruce finally swivels in his chair to face the Robins, briefly, before standing and heading towards a workbench. "-I know where he's headed."

"You mean who he's after?"

Tim had relayed all he knew to Bruce about Jason from his time in Arkham. He'd mentioned Isabel and 'Specs', though Bruce had written them off as the targets Jason had spoken of (despite this doubt, he still had sent a message to Gordon to assign a security detail to both) and the rest of the staff and inmates of Arkham had also been accounted for.

"He's after Black Mask."

Tim quizzically turned his head. "How do you know for sure?"

"After Dick was subdued, I paid Arkham another visit."

Dick was thrown aback— _when had Bruce had the time?!_

"I… _interrogated_ a few inmates. They gave up easily that Black Mask is the one holding the largest bounty on the Red Hood. He's what's keeping this witch hunt alive and fueled in Arkham. From what Tim told me, this is the target Jason seeks to eliminate."

"-Before he kills _himself_ , you mean?!" Tim adds aggressively. Bruce doesn't answer.

"He's trying to stop the revolt in Arkham. Black Mask is the off switch. As far as we're concerned, we need to keep Black Mask alive and safe-"

"-You want us to _protect_ Black Mask?!"

"-If we want to keep Jason alive, yes. As long as this riot continues, and Black Mask is _alive_ , Jason has a reason to _live_ , and to be out there in the open."

Bruce is fiddling with some equipment or other. Tim feels his blood boiling—why is Bruce treating lives so coldly? He wants to keep the inmates in their state of murder? He wants to help Black Mask?

Maybe Jason was right. _Again_.

"We can't put innocent lives at risk, even if it means saving Jason—that's exactly what he's doing, don't you see?! He's trying to stop the murders at Arkham-!"

"-And when that happens, what reason does Jason have to still be alive?" Bruce counters.

"This isn't the way to save him. Protecting the bad guys? This is exactly what Jason was against; the reason he fights _against_ you and not _with_ you. Jason is trying to _stop_ the murders at Arkham; he's trying to fight _against_ the bad guys. And we're trying to help them?!"

"Tim. You weren't there when the Red Hood was running the streets. Dick and I were. He's different, and he doesn't care about sparing lives. Believe me."

"You're right. I wasn't here for the Red Hood. But unlike you, Bruce, _I_ was here for Jason when he was at Arkham. Jason can change, and if you don't believe that's true, then why are you even bothering to _save_ him?"

* * *

Dick was silent throughout Tim and Bruce's debate. When Bruce announced he'd alert them both when either Black Mask or Jason was identified and located, shutting Tim down, and subsequently released the two from waiting around in the cave, Dick went straight back to his room.

Or, he meant to.

But he stopped short at Jason's room instead.

It was still pristine, empty and cleaned- but Dick nonetheless found himself lying in Jason's bed, facing the ceiling, and wondering silently what Jason must be thinking and feeling—to be so adamant about dying, but still drudging on to kill Black Mask.

Maybe he _couldn't_ pull the trigger himself.

Maybe Jason was struggling to light the fuse. Maybe he needed a push, needed _help_.

Everything kept getting in the way of letting him go—first he survived the explosion, then Bruce and Dick stopped him, more than once—so maybe he was just struggling to believe life was _finally_ going to sit back and let him rest.

Maybe Jason couldn't do it on his own.

Dick _needed_ to find Jason.

Only _he_ could help him.

* * *

Tim was livid.

Bruce didn't _understand_. Did he think Jason just killed for the fun of it? That he had no regard for human life? Jason wasn't all lost—he wasn't psychotic in the way _Joker_ was, who didn't care about life.

Jason just didn't believe in throwing around redemption as freely as Bruce was; he was a hard sell on second chances. Jason surely wasn't _ok_ with condemning everyone in Arkham to die—he'd spent months there, and he must have seen _something_ that led him to believe it was worth saving.

That, or he just was so damn hell bent on dying the martyr.

Tim shook his head. _Bruce was wrong_. He was wrong about keeping everyone away from Jason, and about how to treat Jason, and…well, Jason. _Bruce didn't understand!_

Protecting Black Mask? That couldn't be the answer…

Tim grabbed the nearest thing to him, a page or two of an old, graded book report, and tossed it, though the paper flailed as paper does and floated down harmlessly. Tim threw himself on the guest bed, gripping at his head in thought.

Tim _needed_ to find Jason.

Only he could help him.

* * *

Bruce set the tool down, glancing at the smoke bomb he'd been tinkering with since the two youths had left the cave. In half an hour, he'd accomplished relatively nothing. Tim's anger and Dick's silence still played out in Bruce's head. But, pushing those two aside, he thought back to seeing Jason at the asylum.

How readily he'd thrown that bomb at Dick and himself. What he'd done to the three men that Tim had come across.

Bruce thinks back to after he returned to Arkham to interview the inmates. What was the name of the one? Marvin? _Marcus_? His account of Jason's attack, ferocious and without mercy. Bruce thinks of the image of Jason, drenched in blood—coated red. _Hooded_.

Bruce was missing something.

He glanced at the Batcomputer. In the background of several programs running was some code, ever shifting and scrolling. Known locations of Black Mask's last appearances. He'd bought himself out of his trial back when he'd been apprehended by the police, saved from the truck that nearly had gone up in flames thanks to the Joker (and in part, Jason, too).

Since, he'd bene laying low. He wasn't in any rush to reclaim the underworld—that, or it was too shaken by the war it'd been split between by Jason to be mended anytime soon. Black Mask had lost a lot of territory and resources, and no doubt was licking his wounds; recuperating.

What little he did have left in control, in Gotham, was heavily monitored, by both GCPD and Batman. Bruce didn't hold out his hopes that Black Mask may have left the city.

Bruce glanced across the cave, at the Robin uniform encased in glass—untouched and symbolizing a time long since removed.

Bruce had a lot of fears, and relived them every in his dreams. But, in all his years, Jason dying, and coming back to life, and growing to be as old as he is, but turn out the way that he had? It had never been a concern of Bruce's, a fear of his, yet this was reality.

A reality where Jason dying at the age of sixteen wasn't the worst thing to happen to him.

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

Alfred's entrance into the cave brought Bruce back from his reminiscing.

"Master Bruce. Both Master Dick and Timothy have retired to their beds and are sleeping…I insist you follow their lead."

"I am following a lead," Bruce growled, eyeing the computer.

Alfred sighed.

"The wonderful thing about computers? They don't need sleep, and will continue to run with or without you beside them. You, however, Master Wayne, are not a computer—though you may wish it."

Bruce rubbed at his eyes. He was tired—exhausted, even, from tonight. He needed a shower, and sleep. Damnit, Alfred.

"Fine…Alfred-?"

"I'll warm you some tea for after your bath, sir."

Bruce nodded, glancing one final time to the case.

He had so many questions.

He needed to find Jason.

Only he could answer them.

* * *

Jason held up the mask, admiring his handiwork. He'd had a few spares all across Gotham, in only places _he'd_ known to look. He'd forgotten or otherwise ignored the memory, until now.

He was going to ride out once again as the Red Hood.

He was going to confront Black Mask, and put an end to this sick bounty for his head. Criminals were so _petty_ , he thought; killing each other over a scrap of coin. They had an insatiable blood lust and this was all just a charade to help their conscience when they slept at night. Jason refused to be a part of it—to be a token exchanged for a few rounds of murdering like some sick arcade game. The only real players in this were him and Black Mask.

Even Batman—even the _Joker_ —took a sideline seat to this one-on-one.

Jason _really_ should've killed Black Mask all those months ago.

He sets his mask down and picked up his two pistols. They're polished and loaded, and itching to punch someone's ticket in. Jason belts them, and a third one in the back of his belt. He misses his knife—a gift—but knows it's lost under the rubble—that, or sitting on a shelf in the Batcave, if Batman was as thorough as he claimed to be in searching for Jason after the building blew.

He'll _make do_ , though he won't be happy without it.

The timer in his mind is dim—not gone, but _quiet_. The ticks are soft and more lulling, like a car engine or the buzz of a neon sign. It's the quietest Jason's mind has been in a long time. Almost a year. He's focused. He's feeling the way he did when he had a plan the first go around. When the end goal was Joker or death.

The target has changed a bit, but it's all the same to Jason. He's not walking out of this alive—he's just also happening to be bringing Roman down with him.

Jason grips the helmet, glancing it in the hollow white lens of eyes once again, and smiles.

Only Jason could help himself now.

* * *

Roman Sionis was an angry man.

He was angry that he'd spent half a year creeping around in his own city; the city he had once _run_. He was angry that this time last year, he'd been the _god_ of the underworld of Gotham. Damn Red Hood. Damn Joker. _Damn Batman_ …

And he'd been in _such_ a good mood when the rumors and reports claimed the Red Hood had died. Batman had finally done it—or the Joker, it really didn't matter. Whatever cat-and-mouse game between them had ended and _Roman_ came out on top. It'd been good, not having that freak around anymore, taking up his territory. It'd been good for a whole of five minutes, at least.

Because he _hadn't_ won back his territory—nearly the opposite.

The Red Hood gave everyone ideas—ideas like that they didn't need Black Mask or his protection. _Stupid ideas_ , like that.

So half a year later, and he was still living and working from the shadows. Staying out of Batman's view—like hell he was going to get caught up in another of the Bat's death matches with a lunatic like the Red Hood or the Joker. Roman was a _civilized_ man, with priorities that included _not_ _dying_.

 _And worse yet?_

The Red Hood was apparently _alive_.

Joker was mad, but he wasn't a liar. Well, no, he was a gigantic liar—but he wasn't lying about this. The Red Hood was alive, and in Arkham, and if Black Mask thought it would be more beneficial than hurtful to him, he'd blow the damn island up. Except, Arkham kept some of his competitor's goonies and allies, and even some of his competitors themselves, and he wasn't about to declare war on all of them at once. Plus Arkham kept Batman busy—gave him a prison to drop his trophies off at. Who knew—without Arkham, maybe he'd finally find the resolve the Red Hood had, and Black Mask didn't like the odds.

So he'd keep raising the bounty and sending in assassins and waiting to hear back whether or not the Hood had been dealt with.

He hadn't. _Yet_.

Sionis' assistant buzzes at him that his next meeting, a benefactor looking to expand an underground project that Sionis' had been careful to keep _underground_ , was here.

He barked back to send the man in.

Sionis already knew the risks of speeding up the project at this point in development. They weren't worth it.

But, he'd had a lot of pent up anger lately and wouldn't mind punching someone in the face.

* * *

Tim had opened Jason's novel, from the asylum, and had just finished the first chapter. It was painfully obvious this novel was translated and that English wasn't its native tongue. Tim enjoyed reading, but wasn't much one for the Eastern European style of story where the arc was more about being realistic than about building a character or taking a journey. Outside of America, the world tended to clamor for stories that didn't end in happy endings, with perfect bows tied up. Tim could tell this was one of those stories, headed to an ending without a feel-good conclusion.

Jason had a stronger literate taste than Tim.

No news of Jason had appeared in three days. Bruce didn't sleep, Dick didn't talk, and Alfred stalked the mansion like a ghost. Tim had pulled every desperate excuse for his father to let him come out every night. He'd even tried finding Billy, that kid and his houseless buddies, again the other night to see if any news had reached their ears of Jason, or the Red Hood, resurfacing. He had had no luck finding any of them.

(He'd even looked for 'Candy', or anyone else he recalled from Billy's story, but the streets tended to be quieter and emptier lately—maybe they had heard of the Red Hood stirring again and were going in for cover)

Dick was often found in Jason's room over his own. He wouldn't eat, but would instead sit and mull over some memories of his few interactions with Jason as Robin—one particular team up, or a story or joke he'd heard the younger boy say in passing. If Tim pried enough, Dick would humor Tim and let him in on what particular memory Dick was lost in, but mostly he sat alone and drowning in his thoughts on Jason's bed, unresponsive to most of Tim's attempts at conversation.

Tim's belt com link lit up abruptly.

" _Robin, Red Hood has been spotted. Meet me in the Batcave."_

Tim was already dressed as Robin, preemptively, and was down the staircase in the cave within a minute. Dick, too, was suited up and waiting beside the car.

* * *

Jason was nowhere to be seen when the trio arrived. They were at a warehouse on the docks. Tim didn't recall whether this was Black Mask's territory or not, but no one seemed to be guarding or inhabiting the building regardless.

Bruce tapped on the screen of the car, removing the image of the GPS map that the Batcomputer had streamed to him of he supposed sighting of Red Hood via satellite.

The three set up a perimeter. Dick took the back while Tim posted at the east entrance. Bruce was by the waterfront. The coms were quiet without activity. Tim wondered what had even tipped this location off to Bruce. All Bruce had said was that the satellite had picked up Red Hood's mask. No one was here—certainly not Black Mask—so _why_ would Jason be here..?

There was an explosion heard through both the coms and live. Tim jumped, thinking it was him being targeted, but the light and smoke came from around the warehouse.

 _"Nightwing, report!"_ Bruce snapped over the links.

 _"He's here-!"_ Dick coughed out, before another explosion set off. These bombs were larger than the Arkham ones. GCPD hadn't reported any theft of the armory—no bank or weapons deposit had been reported as broken into. Bruce hadn't reported any drop or import of weapons. Where had these ammunitions come from? _Had Jason home made these bombs himself..?_

" _Robin! He's headed your way!"_

Tim braced himself, crouching with his bow staff at the arms. He watched the darkness, waiting for Jason to make himself known.

" _Stay put and do_ not _engage, Robin! I'm on my way!"_ Bruce growled.

Tim still watched the darkness.

"You never told me what we got on that _thesis_."

Tim reacted too late as a baton boomeranged off his back. Stumbling to find his footing, Tim turned to see not Jason emerging from the shadows, but the Red Hood.

* * *

The Red Hood shuffled three silver marbles in his hand, rotating them between his fingers. He was dressed in combat boots and pants, with a hoodie of red that clung rather tight to obvious body armor and Kevlar underneath. The helmet was exactly as it had been pictured in the newspapers, but rather impressive and less blurred than in those photographs.

Through the muffling, Tim almost could make out Jason's voice. Nothing else about the Red Hood even remotely reminded Tim that Jason was somewhere underneath it all. He seemed bigger; heftier. He wasn't the thin corpse of a John Doe that Tim had met.

Red Hood's other hand was settled over a gun holstered to his waist. He cocked his head.

"It's like looking at a yearbook!"

Tim frowned.

"What're you doing here?!" Tim tried shouting.

"I told you I'd kill you the next time I saw you."

Jason threw the three marbles, which upon hitting the ground immediately sparked. Tim leapt out of the way as one went off right after the other, exploding. Flash bombs. This was a smoke and mirrors show Jason was putting on, but _why_?

Tim felt something grab at his shoulder and tried swinging at it, only for Bruce to catch his fist.

" _Relax_ , Robin, it's me."

The smoke thickened, clogging the area. Bruce took a stance back-to-back with Tim.

From somewhere within the smoke screen, Tim heard Dick calling out.

" _Where are you_ , Jason?!"

Tim furrowed his brows, wondering why Dick sounded so… _angry_? Desperate..?

Jason called back, his voice coming from a different direction.

"Three against one? It's a little unfair. Playing dirty is a bit more _my_ style, don'tcha think?"

Too late, _again_ , Tim heard the buzzing flicker of a tazer before he could properly react, feeling the shock attack his right arm. He bent to the ground, gripping his arm as the gloved hand retreated. It was _just_ a high enough voltage, and had lingered _just_ long enough, to sting but not incapacitate. _Had Jason pulled away too soon because he was attempting to keep his distance?_ Or was he even _really_ going in for the kill..?

Bruce cursed and leapt over Tim, who struggled back to his feet. He heard the sound of something hollow but metal crack against bone. Dick yelped immediately after.

" _Jason_!" Bruce snarled, angry but unable to find the boy in this smoke.

"I didn't _want_ to hurt you three. I told you to stay out of my way. I'm only after Black Mask!"

Tim closed his eyes, thinking. _Why would Jason lure them out here_? He'd gone three days without being caught, and clearly was waiting for them, ready and all—so, he had to have set this trap for them. But _why_? What did Jason _need_ that they had?

Tim shook his head, racking his brain. Jason was stalling. He had enough toys, enough weapons— _how_ was another question. He wasn't trying to take them out. It wasn't them he was after…

It was Black Mask.

He was just taunting them.

Teasing them.

 _Stalling_.

Tim's eyes flew open.

"The car! He's after the Batmobile!"

Dick groaned from within the fog.

" _What_?!"

"He's trying to get to the Batcomputer! He's hacking into the computer through the Batmobile! He's trying _to find Black Mask!"_

"You really are the smart one, aren't you?" Jason smirked through the fog. He sounded impressed. _Proud_.

" _Nightwing, Robin_ , get to the car! Check it for any bugs or-"

"It's a noble thought, Bruce, _really_. But, a bit too late. If you'd been a little _quicker_ , Replacement…This was fun, though. Maybe another time, if there is one."

By the time Dick and Tim simultaneously emerged from the smoke, Jason was gone. Bruce clambered out behind them. Tim frowned between the three of them.

"Does he know?"

Bruce was panting, sighing. "What?"

"Did you find Black Mask? And now Jason knows?"

Bruce didn't say anything, and Tim let his head fall, hanging it in defeat.

Nightwing was gripping his arm, rubbing it from where the pipe had made contact . "Where'd he get the _toys_?!"

* * *

"Where is he getting his supplies? I thought his reign and territory had all disbanded, or been reabsorbed by Black Mask?!"

Bruce shakes his head.

"I don't know…I don't know where he's getting his arsenal from…"

"From me."

Everyone jumps. Tim's bow staff is at the ready, Dick's batons are in hand, and Bruce levels a batarang. Across the room, next to the curtains she'd clearly been hiding behind, stands Tahlia Al Ghul.

Dressed in her signature black, she isn't armed—not visibly. She stands casually by the window from where she'd let herself in, her arms crossed.

"Tahlia." Bruce growls. He lowers his hand, but neither Dick nor Tim stand down.

" _Why_ are you giving Jason weapons?" Tim barks.

Tahlia looks around, as if weighing the value of every object in the room—or, plotting her attack. She ignores Tim.

"I suppose saying 'from me' _directly_ is misleading…But, everything Jason has and _had_ has been because of me."

"Talk, Tahlia. You know something. Something even Ra's doesn't."

* * *

She sighs, walking over to an armchair and letting herself be seated. Dick returns his batons to his back, but Tim is still on edge. Bruce doesn't approach Tahlia, but he seems fine with her having a seat.

Tahlia crosses her legs, glancing around.

"You can still afford staff, no? That Butler… _Alfred_? I'd love some tea. It _was_ a long trip…"

Bruce doesn't call for Alfred, so Tahlia sighs and waves a hand aside.

"No hospitality, even for an old _friend_..?"

"You're stalling. Why?"

Tahlia frowns.

"Not everything is a war game of tactics and trickery, Bruce." She sighs. "I guess with you it is…Ra's told you all he knew. My father didn't lie when he told you he thought Jason died when he jumped from the cliff."

"But you knew he survived."

Tahlia doesn't confirm verbally, but it's all the same as if she'd said yes.

"My spies heard rumors, trickles of tales that caught my interest. By the time I found him, he was rabid and in Serbia. I approached him and _I_ alone was allowed as much—anyone else who neared him he'd attack. But I suppose he was familiar enough with me…"

Tahlia and Bruce had interacted little during the duration of Jason's run as Robin. She'd been around significantly more so when Dick had been Bruce's partner, but she'd still crossed paths with Bruce occasionally after. Jason's opinion of Tahlia had never been outstanding—he didn't trust her, as Bruce had told him not to, but he also didn't have the years of history and firsthand experience of watching Tahlia grow from a perceived innocent to the master of assassination and espionage as Dick had witnessed.

"I took him in. Without my father knowing, I had him trained. _Away_ from the monastery. I kept him out of my father's sights, and I helped him build a network. I gave him access to weapons, to trainers, to funds. I gave him the knife that could cut through your line. I helped him birth the mantle of the Red Hood."

Now Bruce stepped forward, heated.

"Why? What reason did you have for taking a boy and putting him through more training, more soldiering? He'd already lost his life before, so why did you set him on the path of it all over again?!"

"He asked me to. You think I wanted to send a sixteen year old boy to these maniacs and warlords to learn what you never could teach him? I may have started much younger than him, and I stand by my people and our ways of raising warriors, but he wasn't _one_ of us. He was different and if I could have convinced him to put down the gun and pick up a plane ticket and return home to America and to living the life he originally was robbed of..? You think I wouldn't have _done_ so? Have _tried_?!"

Tahlia shook her head, gripping the arms of the chair with her nails. She sounded sincerely pained.

Dick had stopped watching the confrontation, his back turned. Tim glanced between Bruce and Tahlia. If Jason had seen _little_ of Tahlia as Robin, Tim had _rarely_ seen her. He realized now her absence might have been due to her hiding Jason all these years, but mostly he just resented that he couldn't read her well because of it.

"Jason _willingly_ chose this life again. He begged and pleaded and when I refused he set out on his own. I aided him because if not me, someone else would have. I monitored him and made sure he never fell into harm's way again-"

"You passed him from psycho to psycho, teaching him to be a terrorist, but that kept him _safe_?!"

"-It kept him away from _you_! That which would have hurt him the _most_ …"

No one said it, but it was as if every eye in the room had turned to face Tim.

The Replacement.

 _Jason didn't come back because of Tim._

Just as Tim thought it, Dick set a hand on his shoulder. As if to say _, don't think it. Don't go down that road._

 _How were any of them to know Jason would come back to life?_

The dead were supposed to stay dead.

Tahlia eyed the two. Tim thought she was looking at him, but her curious stare was instead directed at Dick.

"…I introduced him and provided him resources. I stalled him until he was ready."

"For?"

" _Revenge_. I understood his plight—you had abandoned him, not just by him," she motioned to Tim. _There it was_. "But by also not killing his murderer! By not _avenging_ him! I understood that much…that _pain_ , I could support. He never set out to kill or hurt you, Bruce. He wanted you back. But, he wasn't going to find peace until the one who killed him was dead."

Tahlia looked away, crossing her arms "However, I was foolish. Ra's is right, and knew what I failed to ever see—Jason will never be satisfied until he is dead once again. The dead long to stay that way."

Tim and Dick jumped the moment Alfred slammed his hand against the doorway, shaking them all from their attention on Tahlia.

"Sir! The news—the city..! Sir, you _must_ see-!"

Bruce leapt to his feet, glaring at Tahlia.

"You _were_ stalling for him!"

Tahlia shrugged, but her eyes were sad.

"I said I understood his need to die…but, that doesn't change my opinion that he needs to find some sliver of peace in this world before he dies again…" She trailed off, refusing to look at Tim. Bruce was already running out of the room, cursing under his breath.

"Wait, _Bruce_!" Tahlia cried out. He stopped momentarily.

"Don't go… _don't_ stop him. This is your last chance to do _right_ by him. Let him do this…"

"I won't let _anyone_ die in Gotham. I should've known, Tahlia, that with _you_ —it _is_ always tactics and war games."

Bruce was gone, after Alfred, with Dick trailing behind him. Tim was about to follow their heals when he caught Tahlia's final warning.

"He's already dead. You don't understand that he can't be saved…at least the other _does_ …"

When Tim glanced back to look at her, Tahlia was gone, and the window was open.

* * *

Tim bangs his fist on his desk. It had been a casino and resort that Black Mask owned. The entire building had gone up in flames, and now the world knew—knew that the Red Hood was back, was alive, and was out of Arkham.

Jason had made sure of it by leaving a smear of blood on the pavement, spelling out in red his name. And the world knew his target.

He'd set a black painted skull in the place of where a head had been smashed in against the corpse he'd laid out beside his graffiti-the source of his ' _ink'_ , no doubt.

Bruce had already examined the skull—it had been a model, one used for figure drawing and studies, but the body had not been. It had been identified as one of Black Mask's men—a guard or decoy set at one of Black Mask's safe houses.

Tim had run a background check on the Batcomputer—sure enough, Jason had remotely hacked it. It'd taken him a few minutes, but he'd managed to somehow backup the files on a drive while stalling the three of them with smoke. The media was already reporting the war that was starting, between the return of Red Hood and Black Mask.

There was no way Jason could have coordinated this attack directly after fighting Bruce and them—he must have had it already in place, timed, in case his original plan backfired. But, the cops and coverage was too much at the call-out scene, so he'd orchestrated being caught on Bruce's satellite for a more optimal chance. And it'd played out brilliantly.

They'd all played into Jason's hands. Now, he had Black Mask's location, which Bruce had neglected to share with Dick and Tim, _and_ he'd strike within the next few hours. He had to be found, be stopped…

A shadow passed Tim's room and he silently straightened himself. He tip-toed towards the cracked door, peering outside. A black and blue blur turned the corner, disappearing.

Where was Dick going at this time at night?

* * *

Jason set his helmet down, exhausted. It was tiring, having to bash a skull in. And setting up those bombs? _Timing_ them? Not to mention spelling out his name in blood—it was rather difficult keeping the letters all the same size without lines to follow.

Jason sat back onto the dirty mattress. His hands still trembled slightly from the execution of the criminal. And taking on Batman and Nightwing _and_ Robin…

He suddenly flinched, realizing something was wrong. He jumped back to his feet, his hand instantly reaching for the drive in his pocket. He'd set the drive near enough to the Batmobile in order to hack the computer wirelessly, but it'd taken longer than he'd hoped. He'd spent eighteen of the past seventy-two hours straight making flash bombs and smoke bombs. It'd physically hurt him to strike Dick in the back with the pipe, but he'd done so only hard enough to knock him down. He was getting soft, after all.

Jason finally caught eye of what was out of place—someone had been here, but wasn't anymore.

There, in the corner, with a small paper folded around its blade, was his knife. His first and last gift since he'd come back to life.

A gift from Tahlia, and again it would seem.

He picked the blade up, unfolding the parchment.

One word; _Peace._

Jason smirked.

It was good to see that _someone_ supported his crusade.

He tucked the knife in his back, beside the third gun, and felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck.

 _This time_ , he was no longer alone.

"So…It's going to be you then, Dick?"

Tick.

Dick stands, framed by the window, with a gun pointed at Jason's chest. He'd picked up one of Jason's discarded duo from beside the mattress. Jason turned slowly, not bothering to raise his hands in surrender.

"You know a headshot is more concrete?"

Dick raises his arm accordingly.

"I'm sorry, Jason."

Tick.

Tears are streaming down Dick's face. His eyes aren't blinking and he's trying desperately to focus on Jason's figure. Despite this, his body is rigid and he shows no signs of hesitation or shaking.

"It took me so long, but…I-I remembered. I remembered the story you told me, of when you used to break into the school nearest your apartment in Crime Alley to read? A-and that's when I realized this is where you were hiding…You went _home_ …"

"I always doubted Bruce would ever be able to…I shoulda realized…whenever Bruce couldn't get something done, _Dickiebird_ could."

Tick.

Jason is quipping but he smiles like he's finally at peace; like staring down the barrel of a gun is the Nirvana he's been searching for. Dick cocks the gun. Safety is off.

"I get it now…Why you wanted to die so badly? You were right….and I'm _sorry_. For before, trying to force you to live for my own selfish reasons, and…for now-"

Jason smirks, closing his eyes. He stretches his arms out to welcome the bullet openly.

"It's alright, Dick…I understand…"

Dick's bottom lip trembles. His voice cracks just as he whispers,

"I'm so _sorry_ , Jason-"

Tick.

"- _Dick_ , **Stop**!"

A well-placed kick to Dick's back from the window sends Dick forward, his shot going off crooked. Jason ducks, snatches at his helmet and second pistol, and disappears out the open doorway.

"Tim?! _Wha_ -?!"

"Dick! _What're you_ _ **doing**_?!"

Dick collapses to the floor, head in hands as Tim kicks the gun away from them. He looks at the doorway, but Jason is gone. Horrified still, Tim kneels by Dick, his hands gripping the older boy's shoulders and forcing him to look Tim in the eyes.

 _Dick_ had been who Tahlia meant. She had seen the look in Dick's eyes—she'd known Dick would try this.

"What were you thinking?! Why— _why_?!"

Dick is shaking his head, crying, and Tim isn't that surprised when he feels tears on his own face. He pulls Dick in and embraces him, trying to slow his own heart and reliving the image of Dick holding a gun to Jason over and over and over in his mind.

"Dick… _What_ …what were you _thinking_?"

* * *

 **A/N:** So Black Mask has entered the story~ He's pretty fun to write; maybe I'll write more from his POV and use it for more than just to break up others' POVs~

Jason's psyche is interesting, because on one hand he's ignited a new fire and is actually fighting Batman and the others and is going after Black Mask...but then, on a dime, he can accept that he's going to die at the hand of Dick and he's ok with that... I wanted him to appear that he's never fully out of his suicidal mindset-he'll always be welcoming death, h just, like Dick assessed, isn't openly seeking it by his own hand (at the moment).

Dick's scene at the end, and his complete heel-face-turn ideal from "We gotta do everything to save Jason!" to "Jason wants to die and I'll mercy kill him cause I do care about him-!" was a, hopefully, slow burn element to the story that sources Dick's grief-I wanted this to be Dick's moment of weakness, his lowest point, b/c the healing and redemption that he's going to go through in the last chapters are kinda important to the ending I've planned for this story~ I also wanted it a bit implied that maybe Dick isn't completely in control fully-there's residue of the fear toxin in him, so maybe he isn't thinking 100%, or maybe he is, and he'll have to come to terms with which is it-was he in control, or is he still not at his best, thinking straight..?

Tim is getting more POV screen-time cause again, he's easier to write than Bruce, and I wanted Jason and Dick to be more of a mysteyr in this chapter.

Tahlia's appearance and answers are nods to "The Lost Days" (Which I like ever so slightly more than UtRH) and also her screen time was shorter than I'd meant it...Last minute I threw in the idea that she's still helping Jason, still looking after him and supporting him-she did raise him, offhandedly, for five years and she seems to accept his plight way more willingly than Bruce-she's more observant Bruce is being, I wanted to show, in that she recognizes Dick's intent to kill and she recognizes Jason's longing to 'rest' and I wanted the dynamic of the two of them to kinda read like two divorced parents~ Anyway...

So, Dick is side-lined in guilt, Bruce is refusing to look at every option, including the painful ones like letting Jason _go_ , Tahlia revealed her hand and the fact that she's still team Jason, Black Mask is stepping in as the background target, and Tim is kinda the only sane man who is not refusing to see what Bruce is and is catching onto everyone's personal plights and comments and he's kinda the babysitter that has his hands full trying to watch after everyone. Barbara wasn't in this chapter, but she makes an early return in the next b/c this chapter is just proof you should never do anything without Barbara involved.

Sorry bout the A/N and hope you enjoyed this chapter! Next one will be the climax of the story and full of confrontations and harsh words~!


	8. 0:08

Sorry this took awhile! It's short, but I rushed just publishing it in honor of Jason's birthday! I've had most of this story typed for over a month, but I kept it stalled wanting to add length...still, it's the second to last chapter and I think it's shorter length works~ Hopefully?!

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

* * *

"Coming!"

Barbara rolls her wheelchair, recovering from the slight jolt in her chair she'd had upon the sudden knock. It was an ungodly hour, but Barbara assumed it might be her dad stopping by, or perhaps Helena needing somewhere to crash for the night.

She peeked out the spyhole (Always cautious, she'd learned her lesson).

"Dick?"

Barbara unlatched the lock and swung the door open. Standing in the hall was a defeated, empty-eyed Richard Grayson. Barbara rolled her chair back, motioning for him to come in. Without a word, though he clearly looked as if he wished to form a semblance of one, Dick shuffled inside.

Barbara spun her chair, heading straight for the kitchen.

"Do you want something to drink? Tea? Something stronger..?"

"Barbara…"

She halted her chair, looking back at Dick.

His eyes were red and swollen. He looked a mess, and he looked even moreso out of place in civilian clothes. Mostly because they were half done up and didn't look his proper size—was that Bruce's shirt? Who dressed Dick?!

(The answer was Tim, she'd learn later. Tim had forced Dick out of his Nightwing costume and thrown whatever clothes he could find at him to change into—it happened to be a shirt of Bruce's and a pair of pants that were Dick's, but barely—they were too short for him now and he hadn't bothered buttoning all three buttons)

"Dick, _what's_ going on?"

"We…I found him."

"Jason? You _found_ Jason?! Where is he, is he alright..?"

Dick flinched and Barbara realized instantly that was a mistake to ask. Oh God, was he…again..?

"I…I tried to kill him, Babs."

"What..?"

Dick broke down, crying and clutching at his face. He collapsed to his knees and Barbara leaned as far out in her chair towards him, pulling him to cry instead into her lap. He knelt there, hugging her as she comforted him with " _there, there_ " until he finally could muster the rest of his story.

"I tracked him…back to his apartment. From before Bruce found him…A-and I tried to kill him! I thought….I thought that's what he wanted! I-I _knew_ it was! Babs, I tried to kill Jason! I held a _gun_ to him a-and-!"

Babs swallowed her own horror at the account and shook her head.

"You wouldn't have gone through with it, Dick…Y-you didn't?"

Dick shook his head.

"Tim…Tim showed up. He followed me and stopped me…J-Jason got away…" Dick clenches his fists and shakes his head more fervently this time.

"Babs, what the hell was I thinking?! _Kill_ Jason? He's my Goddamn little brother and I…I held a gun to his head! I was going to sh…!" Dick buries his head further into Babs' lap.

Barbara grips at his hair, stroking a hand through it. She's shaken, wondering what possessed Dick to compel him to consider being a murderer—and Jason, of all targets…

Barbara thinks back to the picture on her bedside table. Of the irritated, jealous Dick sitting beside her, glaring at the beaming Jason…

She shakes the thought from her mind, instead lifting Dick's head with her hands, forcing him to face her.

"Dick. You…you must've not been thinking straight. You're stressed out and…well, it doesn't matter what the circumstances were. You didn't go through with it-! Jason…he got away, right? He's alive! You didn't kill him…You didn't! He's alive..!"

She wonders who she's comforting.

Dick is shaking his head, weakly trying to shake Babs' grip on his face away, but not trying so hard as to succeed.

Babs comforts him for a little while longer before his cries stifle. Finally, she sighs and rolls out from under him.

Babs has him help her lay into her own bed, and he sits beside her on a floor. She stretches an arm out, a hand running through his hair as he sits cross legged by her bed with his arms folded.

He doesn't say anything for a long time. Barbara starts slipping asleep, struggling to fight her exhaustion. That last thing she remembers is stirring when Dick sat up, reaching for a picture frame beside them on her bed stand table. Barbara offers to set it face down.

"No. its fine, I just…I don't remember that day."

Neither stays up long after that, Barbara falling asleep before Dick even finishes his sentence. Dick falls asleep, dropping the frame from his hand. The back clasp slips against Dick's fingers and when the frame hit the floor, albeit gently, the picture itself slips out and under the bed, out of sight.

* * *

There's a worksheet tucked in his pocket he's forgotten about. Some page given to him as an exercise by a Coat about 'letting go'. Confronting whoever or whatever is the cause of his ailment. It's meant to be a conversational piece. You write a name in the blank for who you 'forgive' and answer 'why'. A piece of paper designed to help you overcome years of neglect or misdirected blame and self-doubt. A few blanks and generic typing to set back years of abuse or misdirected hate. Forgiveness.

The blank is left as such—Jason never bothered filling in the form, but looking back the only name burning in his skull is 'Bruce'.

 _So what?_

I forgive you, "Bruce", for..? _For ruining my life? For picking me up and saving me? For letting me die?_ So many options and words to fill only a six inch bar…

He thinks of last night and wonders if it'd bring either him or Dick any comfort if he filled in the blank with Dick's name. Maybe as a will to say everything he never got to say before. Or just to rub it in his face that Tim stopped him from taking the shot.

He thinks of Tim, of the Replacement, but he doesn't feel apologetic towards him. If anything, Tim should thank him for dying and freeing up the slot of Robin.

He thinks of Babs, and hearing her voice faintly through those coms. If he ever saw her in person again, he'd apologize. But only in person.

Jason still is holding onto the crayon from Arkham, and he lifts it up to the paper. He scribbles finally on the blank, but he doesn't offer any follow up in the boxes after. Then, he sets the paper down and crayon on top of it. He lifts his pistols and leaves the paper on the work bench, in a room no one will ever find and link to him. Batman will never confiscate this paper. Bruce will never see Jason's answer.

For all Jason knows, this room will collapse on itself from neglect before anyone checks the abandoned complex where squatters roam free yet no one ever bothers to check the corner room on the third floor, assuming it's haunted. Superstition is a strong power.

The blank reads ' _Jason'_ , and whether he believes it or not, Jason leaves the form to degrade on that desk, claiming there to be a chance he'd ever forgive himself. Forgive himself for turning out the way he did, because he can't blame Bruce for everything.

* * *

"Isabel..?"

The blonde jumps slightly, setting the item in her hands down quickly. Turning, she's shocked to see none other than Specs. William 'Specs' laughs, raising his hands as if to motion a hug, but quickly drops them into a hand shake instead. Isabel smiles, accepting the offering and shaking her old patients' hand.

"Isabel-?! How've you been! I'm _out_! See?"

Isabel giggles, nodding. "I see that, Sp- _William_." She smiles warmly, happy to see Specs cleaned up. He's dressed in a plaid button down that she never had imagined him in, but it oddly doesn't look too strange on him. He's gained some weight and looks healthier. His hair is longer but combed back and he's still wearing a name tag that alludes to a car dealership.

"Last I heard, you weren't in Gotham anymore..?"

"My boyfriend and I moved back just last month…" Isabel knows you're not supposed to discuss things so personally with former patients, but Specs was something special. He nods at her words, settling his hands in his pockets.

"I'm here on a lunch break—picking up some lunch meat for a sandwich and some patches for around the office." He lifts the nicotine patches in his hand, Isabel curious where he pulled them from, but nodding nonetheless. "I see you're…working for..?" She nods and motions to the nametag. Specs laughs.

"Yeah, yeah, my brother-in-law hooked me up with the position. Turns out he knows my mom's second cousin from their days at Uni together so…" He trails off and eyes exactly where he and Isabel are standing.

"Oh…oh, _crap_ , Isabel, I-!"

She nervously looks between where she'd dropped her hands from and Specs and laughs it off. "Oh, it's fine. You know, just…"

Specs blushes wildly. "Yeah…h-hey, you uh…You ever hear from or 'bout John..?"

Isabel tries not to let her smile falter.

"No, I…I stopped hearing from Arkham after Lucy left…just after the break out…" Her hands tighten their grip round each other but she refuses to let it show. Specs just nods.

"Yeah…I tried looking into it once, seeing if maybe I could keep up with him but…I don't know, he'd been released or…something."

They both remember the news—a dozen inmates in three days. It was possible…

"Something…" Isabel mimics.

A ringtone goes off—something country—and Specs apologizes, claiming its work. He adds hastily that it was great to see Isabel again and he nods to the rack next to her, wishing her luck, before walking off. Isabel doesn't even mouth a goodbye before Specs is turned and gone. Slowly, she returns to the object to her right.

She sighs, lifting the pregnancy test box once again to read the accuracy rate.

Stirred and startled from the thought of the John Doe, she throws the first three tests into her basket and storms off, refusing to let her eyes tear up.

* * *

"You look lonely," The woman coos from beside Jason's ear. He promptly ignores her, sipping at the whiskey in his hand. She's clearly a prostitute, dressed in a low cut blue top and jean shorts. Her heels are the regulation six inches and she looms over Jason, smelling strongly of perfume with raccoon levels of eyeliner circling her eyes. She flips her blonde hair to the side and leans against the bar.

"I'm Candy."

He didn't ask.

Jason glances at her briefly, catching sight of something sticking out of her pocket.

"You have a kid?" He asks.

She looks taken aback, glancing down only to catch sigh of the postcard sticking out of her small pockets. Female pants…

The writing is visible—it's large and misspelt and she—Candy—blushes.

"Ah, no…It's…Well, this kid I knew," She smiles fondly—nothing fake, like her greeting to Jason a moment ago. "We're not related or anything. Just a street kid I used to hang with…He'd 'protect' me and all, _y'know_?" She leans her elbows on the bar, pulling forth the postcard. "Couple months ago, he moved out to Fawcett. Started going to a public school—they had this assignment, of sending out a postcard and…well, I just got it today…" She reminisces. She suddenly remembers herself, and her job, and stashes the envelope in her pocket again. She straightens up, pushing her chest out and coughing ot clear her throat.

"It's really nothing. An annoyance, kids that young and all…"She mutters, but she's fooling no one. Jason stands and sets a bill on the table, pushing it towards the bartender. He opens his wallet and Candy gulps, noticing the bills pushed in there. If she doesn't reel in this catch, she might just consider robbing him…

Instead, however, he hands the entire wallet over to her.

There's no identification in it—just cash, and a rail card.

"Take it. Go out to Fawcett—visit the kid. He clearly means a lot to you. Besides, Crime Alley is a tough place…you need protection."

Candy blubbers, unable to thank the man or otherwise say anything. If he's taking pity on her or simply trying to get rid of her advances, she's not one to push or question her luck. She simply nods and turns away, eager to return home. No one should be on the streets with this much money on person.

Jason sighs. He doesn't have any need for all this cash he's saved up—he has plenty in other safe houses and spots.

40% cut on a drug trade on half the city leaves you with a small fortune.

He pockets his hands and leaves the bar. Whiskey, women—it all tastes the same these days.

Nothing.

The dead have no need for sex or alcohol, or money.

They just need a grave with a good view.

And Jason already has that.

* * *

Black Mask outright laughs before him.

" _You_?! _Protect_ me? Do I look like someone who follows clowns into cars with candy in hand? Why shouldn't my men shoot you here and now?!"

Batman doesn't flinch, and beside him Robin looks like he'd rather throw Batman or Black Mask out the window—either would do at this point, they were both being ridiculous and stubborn.

"The Red Hood is back—he's coming after you."

"And you'll what? Protect me from him? I survived him last time, no thanks to you."

"It was all thanks to me—Joker was going to burn you alive, remember? Back then, you weren't Red Hood's target. Now, you are."

Robin mumbles something to Batman, who scowls at him, but Black Mask doesn't catch exactly what it is.

"I'm flattered you're concerned, Bat. Really. _Flattered_ ," he deadpans. "But my men will do just fine-"

"Your men have already been taken out," Robin suddenly speaks up, lifting his hand to his ear, "And Red Hood is currently on the fourth floor."

Batman leaps into action. "Nightwing, _now_!"

The third costumed crusader breaks through the window, and in a motion too quick for Black Mask to comprehend or follow, he's roping the gangster's ankles together and tying them to his belt.

" _What_ -?!"

"Hope you're not afraid of heights!" Nightwing chirps, diving out the window. Batman and Robin are already heading the opposite way towards the stairs.

Black Mask panics, noticing the line being tugged after the black and blue bird.

"Wait-! I didn't agr-!"

* * *

When Black Mask lands on the opposing building's roof, thudding softly beside a mat that Nightwing had set up in preparation, he's not the slightest bit grateful.

"I'll have you three killed—four, if you count the Hood!"

Dick shrugs. "We wouldn't be doing our job if we only did it for the praise and ' _thank you's_."

Black Mask wants to growl back how this is a promise, not a threat, boy, but he's cut off when a grappling hook comes between the two of them.

It's beeping red.

"F-"

A smoke bomb goes off, and while Black Mask is trying to recover, he feels a hand grip the collar of his jacket from behind. He's being thrust forward without care, and he realizes this isn't his "saviors".

It's his executioner.

"Red Hood!" Nightwing calls out from in the smoke, well aware too, but Black Mask feels himself being pushed back over the edge of the rooftop. He's free-falling.

And above him, he sees the cloud of smoke he had just recently been enveloped by, except swan diving from it is none other than the red menace. He throws another line, this one catching Black Masks' arm, and throws it hard through a window. Black Mask crashes through, screaming as glass punctures him and he hears his shoulder snap. Moments later, Red Hood rolls in behind him, landing on his feet and immediately hoisting Sionis up and dragging him after him towards the end of the hall.

"I missed you. I would've sent a card, but you kept changing your address."

"Go to hell," Sionis growls through the pain.

"Been there. It spat me back."

* * *

Isabel took a late walk that night. Each test had come back negative, and she feels relieved for it. Don't get her wrong, she wants to be a mother, someday, but…

She hears the commotion of a couple people screaming, and she follows someone's pointing arm.

There's an usual spark and cloud of smoke atop a building overhead. She tries squinting, but it's too dark to tell what's going on. She recognizes this must mean trouble though. She hopes the Batman catches whoever it is.

And then turns him into Arkham.

She remembers John Doe, for the second time that day, and shakes her head clear. She can't afford to think like that anymore. Not after what also came of today…

She has to forget him. She has to accept that the man she is with now will be her husband, and the father of her children.

One last glance above her, she swears she sees a shadow swing from the smoke, and a moment later a window crashes. It's far up, but she can see the shards of glass glistening as they fall. Some people scream, some people move, but she stands perfectly still under them.

They look like teardrops, she thinks.

* * *

"Go ahead. Try to pay me off."

"Something tells me you're not a material man…"

Jason shrugs.

"Recently I've come to the mindset that money and materials aren't anything, so…I guess you're right for once."

They're in an office room at the other end of the building that Sionis had been flung into. He's nursing his shoulder while Red Hood is reloading a grappler, glancing around cubicles to keep an eye out for the pursuing Bat & Co.

"I have a feeling this isn't all about me, and I'm a little offended."

Jason smirks under his hood.

"You're a bonus. Now, up."

He grabs Sionis by his dislocated shoulder and drags him up. Grabbing a chair nearby, he throws it at the floor length window.

"Can we for once use stairs and _not_ go flying onto rooftops?!"

Red Hood aims and shoots the grappler to the adjacent building top.

"Your request has been denied. Now shut up."

* * *

"This is _cute_. Running into the three of you." Jason waves his freehand around, still holding Black Mask's arm pinned behind him with his left.

Bruce, Dick and Tim all land on the rooftop in a row, facing Jason.

"Let him go, _Red Hood_!"

"C'mon, we're all _family_ here. No need for code names, right?" Jason spins the knife in hand and jerks his other hand upward. Sionis screams as an audible snap resonates across the rooftop. As if the shoulder was bad enough, now the arm itself snaps.

" _Jason_!" Bruce yells, catching himself too late. Jason smirks as Sionis strings out obscenities, his arm clearly snapped out of place.

"There…that's more… _familiar_ , don't you think?" Jason turns his attention to Tim, sizing the boy up.

"Things might get graphic…I'd say tonight's show is PG-13. You might wanna call an Uber, _kid_. But make sure an adult accompanies you." Jason nods to Bruce. "He'll do, _right_? Take the _other_ one with you, too. He doesn't look so well."

Jason sheathes his knife suddenly in his belt, instead gripping out three marbles. Tim recognizes them as the smoke bombs from before. He yells duck, all too late, as Jason tosses them. Except this time they don't explode into a screen of smoke. This time, they emit an electrical field. Batman warns them to jump. Dick leaps back, onto an air conditioning unit.

Tim and Bruce both send a line up with their grappling hooks, zipping further from the scene.

Just as Tim lands on a support beam, something ruptures through his foot. He screams, dropping to his knees, only to look back and catch sight of Jason pinning a gun back to its holster. Tim's foot is bleeding and the pain is unbearable.

Jason shot him.

Bruce is by Tim instantly.

Jason watches the pair briefly, hesitating. Tim, through fast-forming tears, watches Jason's mask, imagining what his eyes might have betrayed if they'd been exposed. What blank expression was Jason trying to hide his jealousy, his resentment, behind? When exactly did the Robin inside him die? Was it in that explosion? Was it after the Pit? _Had_ it, even _now_?

Jason shifted Black Mask onto his shoulder, the heavy man grunting and only half conscious after the shock of the pain, before saluting at Bruce and Tim and leaping off the rooftop.

"I'm on it!"

"Dick, _wait_! Don't try to take him on your own!"

 _Too late_. The black-and-blue suited vigilante was gone. Tim cursed under his breath, wincing as he gripped his ankle.

"Bruce…What if we can't stop Jason this time?"

Bruce doesn't answer. "Stay _put, Robin_!" He sprints after Dick. Tim silently raises himself and follows, limply after him.

 _Like Hell, Bruce._

* * *

"Let him _go_ , Jason!"

Jason sighs. Dick was always the fastest runner. He tosses Sionis to the side. The man curses, rolling on the ground and crying out in pain, cradling his arm.

"Don't get in my way, Dick."

"I'll always stand between outright _murder_ , Jason! No matter _who_ is at either end of the trigger!"

Jason shakes his head.

"Even if it's _yourself_?"

Dick reaches at his back and throws from it a tiny square gadget. An EMP, it hits Jason's mask and an electrical current immediately goes off. Jason curses, his helmet going dark before his manually removes it form his head in one sweep. When he raises his head, he's angry and his face is barren. Only a domino mask distorts his face. A mask under a mask under… Dick winces. There's a small trail of Blood on Jason's brow from the shock which he doesn't bother to wipe away as it slowly beads down over his eye.

"Are you gonna fight me or strip me?"

"We can still _help_ you, Jason-!"

"You sound like _Batman_. That's _not_ a compliment!"

Dick lunges at Jason, but the taller youth catches him, swinging him to the side and pinning an arm behind his back. Jason's grip on his knife tightens and he raises the gift from Tahlia. Dick struggles to shift in Jason's grip, trying to swing himself out of it. Jason is stronger, however, and doesn't give in to Dick's attempts. He raises the knife briefly, looking Dick dead in the eyes, before bringing it down.

Dick yelps as Jason plunges the knife forward. Jason hardly winces as the weapon punctures Dick's collar bone, pushing into the flesh like a push pin in a wall.

"You're on the wrong side again, Dick. What happened? What changed your mind?"

Dick's eyes are overflowing with tears. He's panting heavily through the pain. Jason's face is blank, void of emotion or reaction. He grips the knife, with Dick's hands weakly over his own, prying unsuccessfully at Jason's grip on the knife.

"I'm not…" Dick grimaces through the pain, " _giving_ …up on you, Jason…not… _this time_."

Jason genuinely smiles; a soft smile, but it's _too late, Dick_.

"I know you won't, Dick."

Jason twists the plunged knife. Dick screams, then faints. Jason catches him, withdrawing the knife at the same time. Just then, Tim and Bruce reach the rooftop he's stopped at. Sionis is snarling, whimpering at the pain in his broken arm, to the side. Jason drops Dick.

"What took you so long?"

"Jason! _Dick_!"

"He's alive." Jason motions to Black Mask. " _He_ won't be."

* * *

Jason's face, exposed, is twisted into a rabid snarl. He's boiling with rage and even through the mask Bruce swears he can see Jason's green eyes glinting like the Pit he'd once thought was all but destroyed.

" _Why_? **Why**?!"

"Jason-"

"-You're always there to stop me, aren't you, _Batman_?! The _world_ could be going up in _flames_ and you'd be here, in Gotham, stopping me over saving the world! You'd crawl yourself out of your own grave just to stop me from _jaywalking_! _Why_ are you so _against_ me?! Why won't you let me do this—this _one_ thing! I'm helping— _saving_ —the people of Gotham, yet I'm _still_ the bad guy?!"

"Yes, Jason. _Yes_ , you _are_ the bad guy—you're trying to take someone's life…This isn't the way to fix your past mistakes."

" _My_ -?!"

"The Red Hood started all of this…And you think the only way to atone for the crimes you've done, you've committed, is by someone dying. But, that's not the only answer-"

"Are you _fucking kidding me_?! Are you that _naïve_ , Batman?! You think _I_ regret what I did?! You think I _give a damn_ about the _lives_ I took? You think I'm trying to make up for what I've done?! It's not _my_ mistakes I'm righting—it's _yours_!"

"Jason…"

Tim is terrified, holding Dick's unconscious form in his arms. Dick stirs slightly, moaning. Tim bites at his lip, looking between his predecessors.

"Jason, you can't go around killing people you don't understand…you never understood what it is I do…Why it is I don't kill."

"Oh, _I_ understood. I _understand_ , Batman. You think everyone can be saved- _salvaged_. You think if you set them in some twelve-step program, they'll right their wrongs and donate to charity and write a biography praising the second or third or _hundredth_ chance you gave them because in there _somewhere_ was the magical _one_ chance that set them straight. You don't understand. You can't _fathom_ that some _scum_ out there will _never_ change. And you're gambling the innocent lives of people who are _worth_ something every time you _don't_ put those criminals down."

 _Put the rabid dog down._

"You're not refraining from killing for _their_ sakes. You're doing it for yourself. _Admit it_! Admit that you're the one in the _wrong_ here!" Jason waves his hand at Black Mask's body. " _Why_?! Why won't you let me _kill_ him? Why won't you kill him yourself?! Or the _Joker_? You think he's worth _redemption_? Over _me_?! Why _won't you kill_ , Batman?!"

"I'm afraid. Is that what you want me to admit? I'm afraid-once you take the plunge, once you kill, you can't return from that."

"Then how come you think you can save me?"

His voice cracks. He makes to step forward, but stops himself.

"You won't allow yourself to kill, because you think the moment you do, there's no turning back. It's a one way ticket down a dark path and there's no return; no redemption. But, you're here now, and you're pleading to save me. How come you treat yourself different than me? What makes you so special? You think, after _all_ the people I've killed, that I'll just take your hand and follow you and swear off killing, that everything will be alright? I'm supposed to be dead right now. You wouldn't even kill what's _already_ _dead_? You're only thinking about yourself! The countless _thousands_ who've died at the hands of enemies you refuse to off because you're afraid? You won't kill me, even though I'm begging to die? You're not a pious hero; you're a _coward_."

"Stop-"

"I want to die! Will you kill me? Won't you?!"

"I _can't_..."

"-I know." He mocks, " _You can't. You can't_ - **Kill me**! Just _kill me_!"

"Stop it! Jason-!"

" _I want to_ _ **die**_ _, Bruce_!"

"Jason…"

" _ **Kill me!"**_

A resounding gunshot goes off.

0:09

Jason chokes, looking slowly from Bruce to his chest. A tiny puncture begins to bleed. A trickle of blood overflows out of the corner of Jason's mouth.

0:08

He lifts his head again, looking between Bruce. To Tim. To Dick. Dick still isn't conscious.

0:07

There's no delay, no pause. Jason feels his body go numb instantly.

0:06

Things are happening so fast, yet in slow motion all the same. Bruce is stepping towards him. Is he running? Is time even passing?

0:05

Black Mask is leaning forward, supported by his elbows. Gun in hand. He's smiling. He's done it.

He's killed the Red Hood.

0:04

Tim screams. Bruce sends a batarang at Black Mask, knocking him out again. Jason raises a hand towards his chest.

God, this hurts.

0:03

Darkness begins to crawl over Jason's vision. He can't hear what Brue is saying—yelling. Everything has slowed down and just the slow ticking of the timer rings in his ears. Even the echo of the gunshot has faded.

0:02

It's finally happening. Jason is dying. He's getting his wish.

He can't _believe_ he's thanking Roman Sionis for finally getting the job done.

0:01

Bruce is cradling Jason in his arms, catching him before he hits the pavement. His cowl is drawn back. Jason is looking into the face of Bruce Wayne, not Batman. The older man's blue eyes are bright with tears, stinging. He's saying something—yelling at Jason. To stay conscious, stay awake? To live?!

Jason can't hear him.

He can't see him anymore.

Everything is white.

Everything is silent.

Everything is dead.

0:00

* * *

 **A/N:** This chapter is the emotional climax for Jason and the Batfam, and it ties up a few-ish loose ends of some really minor characters introduced in the story. There's a nod to Billy and Cady's fate, and Specs', and it's elft open whether Isabel dies or not...

The same could be said about Jason. One more chapter to go, and hopefully it'll hit harder! I'm really trying to pull at heart strings here, we'll see...I went back and forth on the ending of this fic for awhile, really...But, that's all for next chapter!

For a big, revelation and eye-opening confrontation, I didn't want all the ends to be tied-the abrupt shooting of Jason is deliberate that there isn't closure between him and Bruce-just like in the original movie/series, no one is winning right now...

Anyway, hope you enjoy, sorry for the delay! One more to go, thank you all for reading this far!


	9. 0:09

I'm disgusted at myself for how long it took to get to typnig up this final chapter...I had the ending typed for over a year now and the beginning, too, but the middle just never would form and I'm finally sitting down and writing it! This conclusion as always could be better, but I'm happy with how it turned out. It's shorter than I'd like, but the ending is what I'd wanted it to be and I really hope you enjoy it! Thank you everyone who has read to this far and I'm so sorry it's taken so long to post the conclusion!

Disclaimer: I own nothing~ I don't believe there's any language, but the suggestive themes are heavy, as with this story so far, and the ending could be triggering..?

* * *

Leslie closes the door behind her, refusing to look up. Everyone stands as soon as she enters the study, except for Bruce, and Leslie sadly looks around at the gathered party.

Dick's arm is in a cast, his shoulder heavily bandaged, and he's supporting himself on Barbara's chair. Tim has a cast around his foot himself, but is ignoring his crutches to instead lean against the couch's arm for support of his own. Alfred holds his hands together, nervous and fragile and Leslie is afraid her news will just break him further.

Bruce isn't looking at her.

"He's still in critical. I've stabilized him for now, but…Does he have a will?"

That sentence alone is foreboding enough and breaks Alfred, who gasps.

Tim scoffs, "Yeah, he legalized one on his way back from the grave to Al Ghul's place."

"Master Drake-" Alfred pleads.

Tim's using humor to hide how upset he is, but it's ill taste and he instantly regrets it after seeing Alfred shiver.

"No." Bruce provides.

Leslie sighs. She's no longer a friend of the family's-of Bruce, or Alfred, or Jason-and is now trembling as she summons every bit of professionalism she has to separate herself from the situation. "It's at this time I would prescribe that he is on life support and…not likely to come off it. I would alert his next of kin for their decision on what measure to be taken next…" She keeps waiting for Bruce to look at her, look her in the eye, but he never does.

"Legally, Jason is d-dead in the eyes of the government already…" She looks so uncomfortable saying these words out loud and hesitates, wondering if she could have phrased this in any other way to avoid calling Jason 'dead' so frequently. "However, you were his adoptive father, and remain marked as his next of kin and emergency contact on any pre-existing forms of emergency…As the closest thing to his legal guardian, I feel it is best to declare that the decision is yours, Mr. Wayne."

* * *

When Bruce finally does speak, it's a controlled, calculated thought.

"We all, in this room, were his kin. The decision isn't mine alone to make. We'll all have a say, but...We need time to think. I...need time to think."

And that's that. Bruce rises, strides across the study, and leaves. And a moment later, when Tim delays in following after him, he's nowhere to be found. Slowly, everyone else files out of the room, mortified and with their heads hanging low. It's an unspoken thought shared among them all that they want to visit Jason, but no one wants to encroach on one another, so they instead all avoid him and his room.

Dick slinks away to his own room, near enough to Jason's that the proximity itself is guilt enough.

Alfred stumbles somehow to the kitchen, and while Tim hears something crash, he doesn't dare follow Alfred to see what has happened-whether the older man tried to hold something and through his shaking and disbelief lost grip or whether he was venting his frustration that despite his age, he very well could be burying the same son again.

Tim is the bravest of them all. He is the first to step into Jason's room after Leslie has declared it to be Jason's deathbed. He thinks he'll stay and sit by Jason's side, but upon just glancing at Jason he resolves that he can't stay.

The book in his hands, mangled and missing pages and stained in crayon and blood and sweat, is slowly left on Jason's bedside table. Tim stares at it, rather than Jason, because it, unlike Jason, doesn't send his heart in his throat. The air feels thick and Tim can't breathe in it, but he stays just a moment longer to spread the book's spine and turn to the page Jason had outlined. he's reread this passage a hundred times in the past few days and has it memorized, but for a final time he reads it. And with all his courage, he turns to face Jason, barely muttering the words he'd sworn to have the courage to say, back when he'd imagined this scenario of bringing Jason home in a different light-

"You weren't a monster... _a_ -aren't."

* * *

Tim then goes outside-a space too big that it could be shared yet a route no one else takes. He stands on the porch, overlooking the front gardens of the Wayne manor, before he decides that every window seems to be facing him and he instead uses a line to the roof to escape prying eyes, though none are on him.

The roof is a maze of rises and shambles, chimneys and conditioning units, with scattered abandoned nests of squirrels and birds.

He sits next to what once was a bird's nest (a few feathers scattered nearby gave Tim the impression the chicks recently must have aged enough to leave the nest). Stretched in front of him he can visibly mark the path he made when he escaped that night to retrace the Red Hood and Batman's fight.

"Replacement" had been Jason's first words to Tim. In Jason's eyes, that's all Tim had ever been-Batman's replacement Robin.

Bruce's replacement son.

Tim, in a sudden fit of rage, grabbed at the nearest thing-a twig-and tossed it. It flimsily fell only a few feet away. Tim grabbed a handful of leaves gathered at a corner and tossed them-they spread and floated in the still night's air. Then Tim grabbed the abandoned nest, ripping a portion of it off, and punting that. Some of the mass managed to clear the roof and fall to the ground. Tim kicked at a chunk of nest that hadn't. He screams in rage and grabs at his head and chest cause he feels he's on fire.

There isn't a mystery to be solved. There isn't a case he can study or a cure he can track down. Jason is dying-dead-and Tim is accepting this. Tim has to.

And Tim realizes he shouldn't have put all his hopes and dreams in Jason-why had he been so hung up on whether Jason would have approved of him as the new Robin or not? He had been so desperate for Jason's approval. 'Replacement' is how Jason saw him, but what did that matter to Tim?

Jason had tried to tell Tim-tell him that if he'd come back from Arkham, that wouldn't have fixed Dick and Bruce. Tell him that Akrham itself wouldn't fix Jason. Tell him that though he may have been back, he _shouldn't_ be.

There might be tears in Tim's eyes, but he shouldn't be crying. He can practically make out Jason laughing at him, teasing him; _you don't shed tears for someone who hated you_.

But Jason never really did hate Tim. Jason never really blamed Tim for becoming his 'replacement'.

Just like how Jason was never truly as far gone as he thought he was. Like when he was going to return to Arkham and reveal himself to be the Red Hood-to save the other inmates-and even in all his madness when he escaped there had been the method of stopping the murders at Arkham. Jason could bury it as much as he wanted, but a part of him was still Robin, the hero.

 _That_ part of him had never died.

Except now. Now that Jason really was dying-dead, Tim admits. He can't live in the illusion any further; he won't sit in limbo like Bruce may wish to. He makes up his mind.

Tahlia was right.

 _Jason_ was right.

The dead want to stay dead. And Jason finally was.

Tim doesn't realize until then that he's still screaming. His voice is gone and he drops to his knees. In his vast vocabulary, the best way Tim can think to sum his thoughts-this situation, _everything-_ -is that _it sucks._

He wipes furiously at his tears, because Jason still stands over him, chuckling that you _don't cry over someone who hated you._

And Tim cries because Jason, as big of a jerk as he could be, never hated Tim; not really. And that makes it that much harder.

* * *

Dick is hyperventilating in his room. The lights are off but the door is ajar enough that a sliver of warm light breaks across his face, and it's enough of a view for Barbara to confirm the source of the crying that she enters after him.

"Dick…"

Dick shakes his head, hysterical.

"Babs….Babs, he can't….h-he _can't_ be gone. H-he can't, after I…I just…"

She rolls up to his side, quick to console him with a hand to his shoulder.

"Dick, _don't_. You have to let that go…You weren't yourself. _You_ know it, _he_ knew it…It's not your fault."

"I could've stopped him…If I'd listened to him, if I'd tried to talk to him instead of trying to…to k-kill…" Dick holds up his hands as if Jason's blood is on them. In his mind, it is. "If I'd just apprehended Sionis tonight, instead of being so distracted…"

" _Dick_. None of this is your fault."

"Jason _can't_ die. This can't be it for him, this...This isn't how it ends!"

Barbara means to nod, but she doesn't agree with Dick. She stays quiet and he understands, but neither one tries to convince the other. They know what they think, they believe, and Babs takes Dick's hand in her own to console him of the fact.

But in her head, Barbara isn't holding Dick's hand, but rather that repaired copy of _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde._ And Jason stand sin front of her, eagerly retelling her the plot despite the fact they both know it. She lets him tell her all about how Utterson spent the whole time caring deeply for his friend, Jekyll, never suspecting Hyde to be the very same. Babs would only interrupt to comment that the story was a dark one, and too mature and with an unhappy ending for _little_ Jason to be reading, to which he'd himself transform from a fascinated, imaginative boy to a stern, insulted young man who would proclaim " _it's called a tragedy, Barbara. It's not supposed to have a happy ending._ "

Dick is equally occupied in his own far-away thoughts. It's not Babs but rather Jason who sits up beside him.

 _"…I can't promise I'll ever want to live again."_

 _"We'll work on that."_

 _We'll have the chance,_ Dick promises himself. Promises Jason.

Jason looms over the two of them, just a memory of who he used to be, and it's not as comforting as they want him to be.

* * *

Back in the study, after Tim has gathered Alfred from the kitchen and Dick has returned hand In hand with Barbara, the group slowly regulate their tempers and breathing and speak one at a time.

"You can't let him go." Dick is the first, the bravest and boldest, to speak. He's full of righteous passion and a sense of hope, as frail as it is.

"Jason was coming around…We _promised_ we'd help him. We saved him before from dying; we brought him home with us and I spoke to him. I told him we'd help him. And I _know_ I made a mistake…I know my actions recently go against what I'm saying, but this is it. This is the way it should be—we have to hold out hope for Jason. Hope that we can still help him, and that he can live, as he's meant to. Bruce, we _can't_ turn off the machine."

Dick's eyes look beyond Bruce, through time to return to the moment where he fought, physically, Bruce to keep Jason. He'd do it again.

Barbara nods in support of Dick's words, but speaks contradicting.

"He's on life support. Leslie herself says there's too low a chance for him to come out of this coma. We can't keep him on selfishly…w-we have to let him go. The facts are—he's not likely to come back."

Barbara is still seeing the photo of an enthusiastic boy hogging the camera to capture his ecstatic cheer at having found a book long since on his wanted reading list.

"No. We can't give up on my boy. We can't give up on J-Jason—" Alfred weeps, his voice cracking. Alfred still struggles to stand, and reaches for that frail, skin-and-bones boy that only came out from the shadows with the temptation of food...or a good book.

"Jason wouldn't want to come back from this." Tim argues, vehemently. He's the most sure, most passionate, next to Dick. "He wanted this... _Wants_ this. If this was up to him, we all know what his answer would be."

A part of Tim imagines Jason would actually be proud of the Replacement-he was the only sensible one. The rest of Tim just sees the dead eyed Arkham inmate whose eyes would light up, rarely-but right now, Tim can't seem to imagine what they quite looked like.

It's a split vote, and everyone is holding on to their breadth and hearts, staring at Bruce. He, as before, isn't looking up at any of them. And just as before, his voice is casual and cool, "So it's down to me. I'll think further on it. Thank you...everyone." His voice softens at the end, but everyone's hearts are in their mouths and they stand on nails, waiting to hear the verdict.

* * *

Dick finally leads Barbara from the room-they head with Alfred to the kitchen, because the butler can't handle being alone a moment longer and they all see it. Tim is back out the door, and Bruce suspects he'll return to the roof. They all heard him scream earlier, but no one is in any state to console one another. Barbara and Dick are under the illusion they're comforting one another, but really they're clinging for support so dearly that should one let go they may drown in grief.

They all have stopped by Jason's room-several times, before at least Leslie declared him on his deathbed. Bruce, as usual, is the only one not to have approached Jason. Not since carrying him from that rooftop to the Bat mobile and to his room.

Bruce has spent hours in this study-too many hours-pacing and thinking. He hasn't shed a tear. He keeps revisiting the image of Jason collapsing from the bullet by Black Mask. Bruce was hysteric making the call to Gordon to pick up Sionis-Gordon must've known something had gone terribly wrong, but he hadn't asked. He must assume it's Robin (Tim, at least) and Bruce knows he can't stay in this study forever.

Batman will have to appear again tomorrow night, just as he always does. And Bruce Wayne cannot publicly mourn someone who isn't alive to begin with. He'll need to appear somber, both in his day and night masks, or else suspicion will grow. No one knows, other than Sionis, that Red Hood and Batman knew each other. Only Joker knows that Red Hood was the former, second Robin. Only those present in the mansion now knew Jason was alive and returned, and now is dying. And they, too, won't be able to show any sign of such come morning.

Bruce's knuckles are white from clutching the armchair so firmly, but it's a deep chuckle that stirs Bruce to look up from his daze.

There before him is Jason; healthy and unmasked and smirking.

* * *

"J…Jason?"

Jason smiles, shrugging, but it's not him. It's an illusion.

Jason, the real one, is dying in the bed he lived his adolescence in.

This is merely an illusion—a mirage. This Jason looks no older than when Bruce buried him—albeit a fake him. He's even wearing his suit.

Bruce really is finally losing it, hallucinating a living, smiling Jason.

" _Hey Bruce. Funny finding you here."_

"Where else would I be?"

Bruce humors the illusion, but his voice cracks. It's not funny. Really, where else would he be in this moment?

Why would he be out in the streets of Gotham when his son is dying just next door?

" _That's what I mean,"_ Jason's image counters, reading Bruce's thoughts.

" _I'm next door, so why aren't_ you _?"_

Bruce can't admit, out loud, that to see Jason would be too painful. To look upon his son, his boy, and try to decide whether to let him die…to _kill_ him…or not?

" _There's no_ decision _. You know what has to be done."_

Bruce shakes his head, but his hand out stretches for Jason. Jason steps back.

" _C'mon. Let's go say goodbye. Together, Bruce-"_

Entranced, Bruce stands but doesn't move.

" _C'mon, Bruce. Alfred and Dick? That's fine for them to care…to wish and hope I'll get better? But Tim and Barbara…they're not being cruel. They're being_ realistic _. Alfred, and even Dick…they always were soft. And that's not a weakness. And neither is letting me go—it's not giving up. It's not the same as out there, with the criminals and the villains. This isn't the Joker—you'll be able to come back from this."_

"No, I won't…" Bruce blurbs. Jason shakes his head, smiling. His suit flashes red and now he's back in the Robin uniform.

Tears are streaming out of Bruce's eyes and he's not ashamed of them or even bothering to wipe them away.

Jason stands beside him, looking no different than the day he disappeared after the Joker, smiling warmly, and nodding towards the machine.

When did Bruce makes his way into the other room?

" _It's ok, Bruce. I forgive you."_

Bruce shivers and his hand outreaches for the switch. He's shaking and hesitates.

"Bruce, _go ahead_."

Bruce looks at Jason's sleeping, peaceful face. It looks the same as when Bruce found him in the rubble all those years ago.

" _Let me go."_

"It's what you'd want," Bruce whispers.

" _It is."_

Bruce pulls the plug.

* * *

0:09

There's no turning back, is there? Bruce could switch the machine on again at any second if he wanted to. He could prolong Jason's life, he could—

Jason would _never_ forgive him.

Even if Jason ever did wake from this coma, he'd resent Bruce. He'd find some way to vent his frustration, he'd take it out on the people of Gotham, he'd take it out on _himself_ …

This was the right thing to do, _right_?

Bruce had been the reason Jason had died in the past. Why fix what's not broke?

0:08

The monitor's heart beat pulse starts to falter and fall. Just a few more seconds and Jason will die. Bruce brings a hand up to his mouth, to silence his whimpers. He's trying hard to hold back his tears, watching Jason—his son—slip into eternal sleep. Beside him, the illusion of Jason is smiling as brightly as when Jason first put on the Robin costume.

Has he gotten younger?

" _It's ok, Bruce. This is how it_ should _be."_

0:07

Jason didn't even know he was dying. He was simply sleeping. Bruce wants to turn away, to close his eyes, but can't. He's killing his son and he deserves to witness Jason's last moments and last breadths. Bruce wasn't there for him when he died before—he'll be hard pressed to be pried from Jason's side now. The warning beep starts up—the patient is being lost. The beeping muffles Bruce's cries.

0:06

Jason's image sits on the bed beside his body, making no dent or press into the fabric.

" _This is what I've_ wanted _,"_ he smiles. Bruce shakes his head, but what use is arguing? The deed is done. He's letting Jason go.

" _I don't blame you, Bruce. Not for dying the first time, anyway…And, I don't think I ever truly hated you. I was mad, angry of course, but…but I knew it wasn't your fault. And maybe I did understand why you never killed the Joker after my death. Not to say that piece of shit doesn't still deserve to die,"_ Jason looked back, smiling still, but Bruce can barely make out the mirage's form through his tears.

0:05

The heartbeat is beginning to flat line. Jason is dying. It's now or never to turn back.

" _Don't_." The Jason image warns. He's entranced, looking at the figure of his dying self. He no longer wears the Robin costume. He's just a boy in rags, with a smudge of oil on his cheek. A tire jack should be somewhere nearby…

" _Let me go."_

Bruce is shaking his head but he's frozen in place.

Dick will never forgive him for letting Jason die.

But Jason would never forgive Bruce for letting him live. And Bruce has never done right by Jason.

It's never too late to start trying.

0:04

Bruce crumbles to his knees but keeps his head high, his eyes trained on Jason.

His son, sleeping. His son, _dying_.

"I-I'm s-s-sorry, Jason…" Bruce uncharacteristically bawls, breaking down as he watches Jason's chest quit rising.

" _This is it_ ," The Jason image breathes, excitedly.

0:03

"Jason…" Bruce mutters.

The switch is beside him—he could stop this, save Jason! But…

"P _lease, Bruce, don't_! _Please_!" Jason begs, looking between his dying self and Bruce's wavering resolve.

" _The others will forgive you. They don't hold grudges like I do…_ Please, _don't save me! Let me go, I…I've_ wanted _this_ ," Jason laughs, feeling death so close in his grasp.

0:02

Bruce hears the door opening from behind him but ignores it. There's screaming and heavy footsteps. Bruce keeps his eyes on Jason. The mirage is gone. All that's left is the real Jason, dying in his bed. His eyes are closed. His skin is pale and his hair is combed and he looks so peaceful. So fragile and young…

Dick is shoving past Bruce, but muffled yelling from Tim slows Dick down. Leslie is by Jason's side, checking his pulse and the clock. She's waiting for a time of death.

The image is gone, but Jason's voice still haunts Bruce.

" _You're finally saving me."_

Bruce smiles.

He's gone.

0:01

Bruce turns his head and standing, framed by the open window, is Jason. With one foot out the window, his hands gripping the wall and his helmet, he's the same young man Bruce had found standing in his own grave all those months ago.

"Should I be curious how you managed to get your hands on a Red Hood helmet without ever having left this room?"

"You're the one who trained me...molded me, to who I am," Jason shrugs. He means it as a joke, but Bruce counters in all seriousness, " _You_ , Jason, are the only one who decides who you are."

Jason nods and swings his bag onto his shoulder.

"You _will_ actually consider my offer and stop by sometime, right?" Bruce questions. He's actually nervous Jason will step out those manor doors and never be seen again. Loosing Jason twice was bad enough. Three times?

Jason looks back, grinning, "Of course! You can count on it!" He pauses, then adds,

"Just...start from a really big number. Not ten."

* * *

 **A/N:** Finally finished~! I listened a lot to AURORA's "Murder Song"~ Beautiful song, go have a listen~

So, Firstly, addressing the end-I wanted it to come across as ambiguous. You can imagine that Dick plugs Jason back in in time and Jason remains on life support, and either he wakes up or he doesn't. Or you can take away from it that Bruce made his decision and that was to take Jason off life support-I kinda wrote the hallucinating of Jason as almost non consenting from Bruce's POV...The hallucination kind of has a life of it's own and is making this decision for Bruce, whose clearly not in his right mind-he's hysterical and probably sleep-deprived-so to me the image of Jason tricking Bruce into pulling the plug is doing exactly that- _tricking_ Bruce. So maybe a right-thinking Bruce would decide to not in fact pull the plug.

There's also the last bit-again, can be seen as a hallucination, or as the truth. When I first wrote this story, as in chapter 1, I didn't have it quite yet worked out if Jason lives or not. So I've had these two endings typed for over a year now, at least, but very quickly I knew I wanted this ambiguous "Bruce pulls the plug but maybe Jason doesn't die-but it ends there." Still, I liked that last quip of Jason's so this can be seen as either Bruce's hallucination and acceptance of letting Jason go-a happy ending that he's imagining for himself to soften the grief-or it's a snid-bit of the future when Jason does wake up and their relationship is repaired because Bruce had faith in Jason to recover.

So, ya-however you want to interpret the ending, whether make it a happy story or a bittersweet one-go for it~! As for the others; I wanted to present the rest of the Batfam kinda as different stages of grief. Tim is Anger, which is normally represented by Jason (I believe, though I could be wrong, in the comics after Damien died there was a five-issue run of Bruce with a different Batfam member titled and centered around the different stages, and if I'm not too incorrect I think Bruce and Jason's issue was anger..?) so having Tim be it is further him being the 'replacement' to Jason~ Barbara was acceptance, and Dick was bargaining; he kinda was still beating himself up over trying to take out Jason earlier, albeit influenced by fear toxin, and so he's kinda desperate to make up for his mistake; I didn't show much, or any, of Alfred's POV but he was denial...

My final word on this story is this: Depression and suicide are heavy topics, and I've battled with both and I have enough of my own stories and experience and I took that and my love for these characters to write a fanfiction. In part because it helped me cope-a lot, actually, particularly in the beginning of this story-and part because I wanted to share this story that I thought had some cool elements to it. I don't want, however, anyone to interpret this story to stand for 'Suicide is the answer' or that 'dying can be my solution'-I'm not saying that. What I am saying, through how I wrote Jason, is that _you can think this way_ -it's difficult to admit and no one wants to talk about, but these kind of thoughts are real. I had them-have them-and struggled because no one wants to talk as soon as you say the words "I wish I was dead". So this was me imagining the conversation that follows that. And it doesn't have to-it won't-end in you being shot by a criminal. I wrote this half as therapy for me, but also as a story-so that's why I want my ending to be up for you to decide. There is hope and there is help out there and Everyone deserves a Dick in their life who fights for them, and sometimes with them, to keep them going; just like they need a level-headed Tim to help them and listen to them: Alfreds to care for them and Barbaras to remember them. I know there are more than enough Bruces out there who won't understand, but believe me-they want to. So this story is for all those who read it and even enjoyed a part of it-Thank you! You kept me going, and this story going, and I hope you keep going!

Thank you everyone who read or reviewed or followed this story-it meant a lot to me and I'm glad I finally finished it!

Now to finish my SS story!


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